Turnabout Outbreak
by PengyChan
Summary: Sequel to Turnabout to the Past. Two international spies are investigating a Nanobiology company's shady side business. Meanwhile, in LA, Blackquill finds himself prosecuting a very odd murder.
1. Prologue

_A/N: so in the end I couldn't resist and ended up deciding to give this a try. I should have known from the start I would give in. :P_  
_This fic is a sequel set a couple of years after the end of _Turnabout to the Past._ If you haven't read that one, chances are that plenty of things in this fic won't make any sense to you. You're still on time to run away._

_This is a rather short prologue; the next chapters will be longer, I promise._  
_Also, watch out: there is a not-so-implied threat of rape in this part._

* * *

"... Found her while she tried to sneak in..."

"... There was someone with her, but I couldn't..."

The woman – who's had many names, but who sometimes still likes to refer to herself as the Yatagarasu for old times' sake – can feel an amused smirk spreading on her face. Still, she doesn't let her mirth show in any other way: she keeps quiet and listens the two men talking out of the door of the small, damp room she's into. It's kind of cold in there, but there isn't much she can do about that; not with her hands tied above her head and her ankles tied together. With rope. She doesn't exactly love being bound in general, but she'd take handcuffs over rope any day of the week: metal never bites into your skin quite the way rope does. Ah well. It's not going to be for long anyway.

The door opens, and she looks up to see two men walking in. One is the man who captured her – a tall man with black hair and a rather awful burn scar on the right side of his face – and another with almost no hair and a prominent belly. It's still clear, however, that he used to be a muscular guy back in the day. She supposes he's this place's own version of a Chief of Security.

"Well, well," the bald man says, walking up to her and smiling. Both his front teeth seem to be made of gold. "So this is the bird you caught, isn't it, Doug?"

The scarred man nods. "Yes, sir," he says in a somewhat raspy voice. "As I said, she and an accomplice were trying to sneak in the main room. Her partner managed to get away, but he can't have gone far. The security is looking for him," he adds, and the bald guy nods at him before turning back to their captive – to her.

She grins at them. "You may find him harder to get your hands on than you expect," she says. "You're looking for a ghost."

The bald one snorts. "If he's as much of a challenge as you were, he'll be in our hands soon enough. Doug here caught you with no need of backup," he says, and the scarred guy grunts in agreement.

"Pfffft...!"

The men exchange a perplexed glance when she suddenly starts laughing so hard that she'd lean forward wasn't it for the fact her arms are tied well above her head. Not that confusion lasts for long: Baldie scowls in anger, and gives the scarred man a sharp nod. The man nods back and raises his arm, and the next moment a violent backhand slap causes her head to whip on one side, cutting off her laughter. It doesn't keep her from grinning, however, even as her cheek stings and some blood wells up from her lower lip.

"My partner has been wanting to do that for a while, I bet. I think he'll kill you last. Lighten up a bit," she says, turning to smirk at the scarred one. He grunts and says nothing.

"I think you fail to grasp the situation you're in," Baldie snorts. "It's over for you. And to think we were expecting some high profile spy, if any. I'm almost insulted to see they sent in such an amateur."

The woman grins. "Or maybe you're just too smart even for a high profile spy."

This time, the man laughs. "Why, are you trying to dig your way out of this with feminine wiles now?"

She shrugs as much as her bounds allow her. "You can't blame a girl for trying."

"_Pah_. You're not much better at it than you are as a spy," is the reply. The bald guy gestures for the scarred one to step back, and comes to stand right before her. He definitely smells like someone likely to drink himself in an early grave... if given the time. "Who sent you?"

"Hey, give me some credit. I got in far enough to know Ms. Thrax was behind the tests in Reijam. Using humans. I mean, seriously? What happened to guinea pigs?" the woman asks, trying to distract him from his own question. It seems to work, and Baldie laughs again. It's not an especially pleasant laughter, but at least he's not entirely devoid of sense of humor. That's something she can appreciate. Sort of.

"You know nothing, woman," the man spits when his laughter dies down. "Ms. Thrax is nothing but a pawn. She has no true control over anything. But thanks for letting us know she's compromised: YggdraCorp will replace her swiftly."

The woman looks back at him, eyes widening in surprise. "YggdraCorp? The Nanobiology company?"

The man grins and reaches to cup her chin. "That's nothing you should concern your pretty head with. All that you should concern yourself with is whether or not I'll feel generous enough to give you a quick death. Who knows," he adds, brushing his thumb across her cheek with a grin wide enough to show several golden teeth, "perhaps I'll be merciful if you're nice enough now. Tell me who sent you, and I'll even be gentle."

It takes her some effort not to laugh in his face, but somehow she manages to hold back. Well, almost: there is no hiding the smirk spreading across her face as his hand reaches for her shirt. "Looks like my _feminine wiles_ aren't that bad after all. But I'm afraid you won't be getting any tonight. Or ever again, for the matter."

The man snorts, a hand reaching to undo the first button of her shirt. "Oh? And who's to stop-" he begins, only to trail off with a sudden, gargling noise. He stays still for an instant, eyes widening, then he slowly lifts his hand to his neck. The woman lowers her gaze to see the tip of a blade poking out of his throat, covered with blood. She looks back up, and their eyes meet. The man's are still wide with shock, and no words are leaving his open mouth – only a low gurgling noise and dark, red blood.

She smiles. "The Phantom," is all she says. And then the blade is pulled out of the man's neck and he crumples on the floor without another noise, lying still in a widening pool of blood. The woman stares down at him for another moment before smiling again – a colder smile than before. She looks up to see the scarred man standing before her, a blood-covered knife still in his hand.

"One less pig in the world. You heard that happened to the last female spy he got his hands on, didn't you?"

The man nods and approaches, using the same knife to cut her free of her bounds. "I heard of it, yes. I've killed better people," he says, his voice flat. "If anything, he gave us information to work on before he died."

"Just as planned. Next time we have to pull this off _I_ want to be the one to catch _you_. Try playing the damsel in distress for once. But hey, nice mask," the woman says as he finishes freeing her from the rope. She steps past the corpse and allows herself a moment to rub her wrists. "I'm impressed by the performance. Seriously. You could only see what the guy was like for a short time before you took his place."

The Phantom, who's still wearing the scarred man's mask and pulling out a gun to put a muffler on it, lets out a hum. "He was easy. All I had to do was slouch, point and grunt. Universal goon language, it appears."

"And hit me when told to," she says, reaching up to touch her split lip. She smirks. "How long have you wanted to do it?"

He replies without even looking at her, reaching into the bulletproof jacket he's wearing. He pulls out a gun and hands it to her. "How long have we been working together?"

"Roughly two years."

"There's your answer."

"Not the smartest thing to tell me after giving me a gun."

He ignores her quip. "He spoke of one YggdraCorp. I assume it isn't known for any kind of illicit activity, because I never heard of it before. Nanobiology, you said?"

A nod. "Yes. I heard of it, but as you said it was never involved in anything odd. Well, until now. We must report as soon as possible. If he wasn't lying, this is _huge_. YggdraCorp is a leading company in its field."

"We'll report as soon as we're out. There is only a guard outside this door. Did you neutralize the cameras before I _caught_ you?"

"Obviously. They're showing old pieces of recorded footage to whoever is in the monitor room. You could dance naked right in front of each camera and no one would know. Why don't you try?" she adds with a grin.

He snorts. "I'll pass," is all he says before heading to the door. He opens it and calls out, this time with the same voice as the man whose face he's still wearing. "Hey, Harv. Come here a moment. Prisoner's being a stubborn bitch."

The woman doesn't see what happens next – she cannot see outside at all from her position – but then again the Phantom is quick and efficient and she doesn't think she's missing much: after a few seconds to let this Harv come closer, the he lifts the gun almost casually and shoots. The mufflers he picked _are_ pretty damn good, she must give him that: the sound of the body dropping is louder than the shot itself.

"All clear," the Phantom calls out, putting the gun away. "I'm relatively safe as long as I'm wearing this mask; no one has any reason to come here to check for a while. I have a level 2 security card. I'll disable the alarm on the northern side; there are almost no guards on that side, since I sent most of them out looking for _me_. Use that route to get out. If anything goes wrong-"

"Nothing will," the woman cuts him off. "And if it does, the gun will be enough to fix it. Meeting point?"

"Same as previously established. I don't show up within a hour-"

"I'll assume you've been caught and leave, yes. But you won't."

"Not if I have a say in the matter, no."

She grins. "Good. I doubt any other partner I may get would be as much fun to make fun of," she says. "So come back. Possibly in one piece."

"Hmpf. Try not to get caught for real," the Phantom snorts, and with that he's off, stepping past the dead body of the guard he shot only minutes ago.

The woman – who's had many names and will have even more, but who sometimes still refers to herself as the Yatagarasu because, after all, stealing the truth is what she _does_ – watches him go until he turns the corner, then she turns to head the other way, gun ready to fire should she have a need to. She's not worried for herself nor for the Phantom, as both of them are capable enough to make it out, but she still loves the excitement that comes from the challenge: the resulting rush of adrenaline is the single greatest thing about being a spy, as far as she's concerned.

Pity that the Phantom doesn't seem to agree, but then again he hardly gets excited over anything at all.


	2. Odd Murders

"Prosecutor Blackquill, sir?"

Simon Blackquill looks up from the form he's filling – after-trial paperwork is by far what he likes the least in his work, but there seems to be no escaping it – to see Detective Gumshoe standing in the doorway with a folder until his arm. He looks all the world like a beaten dog... and he has a good reason to be.

"You were supposed to be here a hour ago," Blackquill points out, gesturing for him to come inside. "I hope you have a good explanation this time."

"It's... it's about my wife, sir."

Blackquill holds back a sigh. That's not the first time he hears something along those lines: Gumshoe's wife seems to have the remarkable talent to attract trouble like a magnet. He can't even count how many times something happened to her in the two and something years he and Gumshoe have worked together – but somehow she always seems to come out of all of it with a smile, at least according to Gumshoe; if true, that's a trait he can admire. It reminds him of Athena, in a way.

"I see. I hope it was nothing serious," he says, and he blinks when Gumshoe's shoulders drop even more.

"She... she was accused of murder, sir. In fact, you're supposed to... well, these are the documents for... for the prosecution, sir," he says, putting the folder on his desk. Blackquill stares up at him for several moments.

"Are you telling me that I'm to prosecute your wife for murder?" he asks quietly.

Gumshoe's hands ball into fists. "She didn't do it, pal! I mean, Prosecutor Blackquill! She's innocent! There was a mistake!" he exclaims, and he sounds truly desperate to convince him. Not that convincing him is needed: it's the _court_ he needs to convince.

Blackquill reaches to take the folder. "If there was indeed a mistake-"

"There _was_! Maggey would never-"

"_Silence_. Interrupt me once again, Detective, and your wife will have to face widowhood along with murder charges," Blackquill cuts him off, causing him to wince and shut his mouth. "As I was saying, if indeed there is a mistake, then the trial will uncover the truth. I trust she already chose her defense attorney?"

Gumshoe nods, and this time a smile makes it to his face. "Oh, sure! Mr. Wright helped her out of some sticky situations already. He's going to be her lawyer. Again."

That causes Blackquill to smirk. It's been a while since last time he and Wright crossed their blades; he's been wanting to do it again for a while, actually. What better chance than this? "Very well, then. If your wife is indeed innocent, I'm certain the trial will reveal as much. If you believe in her and her defense, then you shouldn't worry. Cease your moping."

The detective nods and smiles again. "I... sure I believe in her, pal. I mean, sir. She wouldn't hurt a fly!"

Blackquill hums and opens the folder to look at the evidence list. It isn't very long, as apparently the circumstances in which the murder seems to have occurred is in itself the most damning evidence. "Do tell, who'll assist Wright as the defense?"

"Miss Cykes said she'd do it. Justice has a trial of his own the same day. I think the Wright kid will be helping him out for that one."

"Hmph. I hope for his sake she won't decide to make evidence disappear again."

Gumshoe chuckles. "Well... it was just an accident, sir. She made it appear again after a few tries."

"Still a waste of time we could have done without. It makes you wonder how come she wasn't held in contempt of the court," Blackquill mutters, but he leaves it at that. Holding anything at all against Trucy Wright is surprisingly difficult.

"I think Mr. Wright's first assistant was, once. Mr. Edgeworth's life was at stake and she refused to back off."

"Maya Fey? Somehow I'm not surprised," Blackquill comments, still looking through the evidence. He doesn't know her very well, having met her only a few times... but one of those times she did him and Athena the greatest favor either of them could possibly ask for. They had wanted, needed to speak with _her_ once again, and Maya Fey had made it possible. Despite the tears running down her face, the smile Athena wore that day was the brightest he had ever seen on her until then.

And when Maya Fey had accepted to do the same for Aura, to let his sister see _her_ again, Blackquill had known that nothing he could possibly do in his life would be enough to repay the spirit medium for that gift.

"Oh, and I almost forgot," Gumshoe is saying, in a much better mood than before. "Miss Cykes says you should go with them for some noodles after the trial is over, since she's sure they'll clear Maggey's name. She says it will be on Mr. Wright. Not sure Mr. Wright knows that yet, though."

Blackquill allows himself to smile. "I can't see why not. I hope you and your wife will be able to join. Now, I want you to go back to the crime scene and keep looking for anything that may be relevant. And remember," he adds, looking back up at Gumshoe. "I expect you to treat this like you'd treat any other case. If your wife is innocent, the truth _will_ come out. You have my word on it. Don't do anything foolish. Don't compromise yourself for nothing," he warns. "I'll have no mercy on you if you do."

Gumshoe straightens himself and nods. "Yes, sir! It'll be the most thorough investigation you'll ever see!"

_In justice we trust!_

The sudden memory causes Blackquill to freeze for a moment, then he clenches his jaw and looks away. It doesn't happen often anymore, but there are still times when he almost expects to hear that motto, that voice again; there are times when he catches himself almost calling for Detective Fulbright rather than Gumshoe.

This is ridiculous, of course: Fulbright is dead, and it was never _him_ he worked with. It was the Phantom, and the Phantom – Robert LaRoche, he tells himself, that was his _name_ and he will remember it until the day he draws his last breath – is gone from this world as well, executed for his crimes.

Blackquill will never hear that voice or those words again, he knows as much... but it's taking his mind an aggravatingly long time to catch up with the fact. "Then go already," he snaps at Gumshoe, and he doesn't even watch him leave: he simply turns his attention back to the evidence list, trying to figure out how on Earth could Gumshoe's wife get herself in such trouble to begin with.

* * *

"Are we there yet?"

"No."

"Are we there yet?"

"No."

"Are we there yet?"

"No."

"Are we there yet?"

The Phantom rolls his eyes, but doesn't turn his gaze away from the plane's window. Not that there is much to see aside from the plane's wing lights and, occasionally, some city's lights down below. "Are you going to keep this up for much longer?" he asks with the same flat tone he's used until now.

The woman beside him shrugs, absentmindedly running a hand through short auburn hair. He only asked her one time how he should call her between assignments or whenever there was no need to use someone else's name, and that one time she had called herself 'Yatagarasu' before adding something about 'one stubborn young woman who may not agree'. He asked no more questions, and in time that's how he's come to think of her – the Yatagarasu.

"As long as it takes to get a reaction out of you," she says.

"Saying 'no' is a reaction."

"You're no fun. The worst possible company on long flights, actually."

"People are supposed to _sleep_ through night flights."

"You're awake."

"Thanks to you."

"As if. You never sleep during flights."

"I _wonder _why."

"Aw, you know you love it. You wouldn't have married me otherwise," the Yatagarasu says, her voice suddenly sickly sweet. He turns to glance at her, and he's not at all surprised to see she's grinning widely, barely holding back from laughing... as she _did_ laugh when they were told they were to pose as a married couple for their return to the States. It's not the first time they need to take on the role of the married couple, but she still seems to find the thought hilarious. He _doesn't_, which seems to add to her amusement.

"If you're going to keep us both awake, we may as well get something to drink," he mutters, and reaches to press the button to call for a flight attendant. He'd appreciate some cognac, truth to be told, but the man whose skin he's wearing is more of a wine person, so wine it will be.

She grins again. "Sounds good. Champagne for me, darling," she says, blowing a kiss at him before bringing a hand up to her mouth to muffle her snicker. He has to wonder, not for the first time, how old she exactly _is_. That's something he never bothered to ask, and nothing he plans on asking at all – even though he knows for a fact that she must be at least forty. She doesn't act like it, that's for certain.

"Hello. Did you call for assistance?" a flight attendant asks, coming to stand next to the seat the Yatagarasu is on. She gives her a wide smile.

"Oh, yes. We would like some red wine and champagne, the best you have. The company he works for is covering all expenses, so we should take advantage of it. Isn't that right, sweetpea?" she chirps at him. He can tell her face must be hurting with the strain it's taking her to keep a straight face. He has to admit that 'the company he works for' is quite an interesting way to refer to the government of United States.

The Phantom pastes an adoring smile on his borrowed face – because the man whose skin he's wearing absolutely adores his vapid little wife – and nods. "Of course, schnookums," he says, because he knows that's what the man he's impersonating would say. The man he's impersonating is also an utter imbecile, but that's nothing he can allow himself to change.

Sometimes he wonders if there will ever be one time before the end of his life – which, statistically speaking, isn't likely to be very long in his line of work – when he'll be allowed to impersonate a normal, functional human being with no ridiculous quirks and catchphrases. Someday, maybe. But not today.

"Pffffft…!"

The flight attendant blinks, clearly taken aback by the uproarious laughter that leaves his 'wife'. He doesn't bat an eye, however: he's far too used to those fits of laughter. He's been the receiving end of them more times than he cares to count in the past couple of years, often at the most inopportune moments.

He gives the flight attendant an apologetic smile. "We had a few drinks at the airport already. To pass time as we waited, you see," he says. It's not true, of course, but what else is he supposed to come up with to explain the fact his 'wife' is currently howling with laughter?

Thankfully, it seems to work: the flight attendant asks no more questions and just nods dutifully before she's off to get them the drinks they asked for. The Phantom sighs and gives a sheepish smile to a couple of people who are glaring at them from their seats – people who don't appreciate being awakened by uproarious laughter, he assumes – before turning back to the woman he has the misfortune to have as a partner. Thankfully, her laughter has died down to a snicker now.

"Do you have any more ideas to draw everyone's attention on us?" he asks. The plane is far from crowded and no one is sitting close enough to them to hear what they're talking about – but everyone in the plane can hear her laughter just fine and clearly don't appreciate it.

She frowns as though in deep thought. "We could set some snakes loose on the plane."

"Do you happen to have a live snake hidden somewhere on your person?"

She grins. "Do you?"

He gives her a blank gaze. "I'm going to pretend I didn't hear that."

"Another way to be sure we get everyone's attention would be-"

"Forget I even asked," he cuts her off. She grins at him.

"Want me to stop?" she asks, shooting a glance past him and to the window.

The Phantom sighs. "I take it you want the window seat."

"That would be nice. See, you're getting better. Get up, _honey_," she adds, mockingly blowing him a kiss. The Phantom chooses to ignore her and just stands, allowing her to take the window seat and sitting down in her place. There is nothing interesting to see outside, but even if there was... well, he doubts the most breathtaking sight in the world would be worth a minute of the annoyance she can cause him.

Besides, it's not like any _sight_ the world many offer can actually take _his_ breath away after all.

_Blackquill_.

The thought is like a sudden, sharp stab through his chest. He's quick to shut out the thought, of course, because thinking about Simon Blackquill will do him no good. He left him behind along with the identity he struggled so hard to find two years ago, and he won't allow himself to linger on the thought. What he has left of his identity is a self, a _core_ he's determined to never lose again; what he has left of Blackquill is the knowledge he's safe and free, that he believes him gone and that he's picked his life back up and moved on.

That is enough; it _must_ be enough. There is no point in dwelling in it: he's history to Blackquill, and Blackquill must be history to him as well. Their paths are never to cross again.

"Are we there yet?" Her voice snaps him from his thoughts and, for once, he's almost thankful. Almost.

"Didn't you say you'd stop if I gave you the window seat?" he mutters.

"I said I'd stop drawing other passengers' attention on us, _schnookums_. Not that I'd stop talking."

The Phantom sighs, reaching up to rub his eyes. He's wearing no gloves, the scar on the back of his right hand hidden by a patch of fake skin. "I'm not paid enough for this."

"Well, we're not paid _at all_. Getting to stay alive is our payment."

"I maintain my point," he says before smiling at the flight attendant who's just now coming back with the drinks they asked for. The Yatagarasu doesn't press the point, thankfully, and there are few minutes of welcomed silence as they both just take a few swigs of their drinks. The Phantom would still prefer cognac – sometimes the mere fact he actually _has_ likes and dislikes that belong to no one else whose face he's worn still stuns him – but the wine is passable, too.

"Here. Do your homework."

The Phantom blinks when a tablet is put on his knees. "What is that?"

"The headquarters forwarded us some information on YggdraCorp. Nothing much yet, but I figure you'd like to get a general idea of what it's about before we're off to find out what's going on with it."

He raises an eyebrow. "What makes you think we'll get the assignment?"

"Why shouldn't we? We already got this far. They may as well let us get to the bottom of this."

"Whatever _this_ is supposed to be," the Phantom says, picking up the tablet and giving a quick look at the screen. There is some information on the kind of work the company does, its known connections and achievements. "The deeper we go, the less we know what this _is_ about."

She doesn't try to argue that point, which isn't surprising: all he's doing is stating a fact.

At first they had a dead politician in the Republic of Reijam. Natural death, apparently: he was found in his locked bedroom without a single wound on his body... as far it was possible to tell. The body was at an advanced stage of decay, which had made the autopsy quite difficult. But nothing that could resemble a wound had been found, and no poison of any kind was detected by any of the tests performed. It could have probably been written off as heart failure – something the Phantom considers medical speak for 'we have no clue what the hell even happened' – hadn't it been for the tiny, insignificant detail that the man had been alive and well only three days before his body was found.

And there was simply_no way _for a body to decay that much in a matter of three days.

The Phantom has no idea why the government of the United States would be interested in the matter – such information is on a need-to-know basis, and to do his job he certainly doesn't need to know – but there has to be something, since both him and the Yatagarasu were sent to infiltrate and gather information right away.

The first hypothesis was that of a body double, someone who went around posing as the deceased for at least three weeks prior to the body's discovery. The Yatagarasu had found it hilarious, and the irony _they_ were the ones chosen to investigate the possibility hadn't escaped the Phantom.

However, it hadn't taken them long to realize it wasn't the case. The man had cut his hand with a letter opener only a few days before the body was found – another detail _she_ had found especially hilarious and that had made the back of his right hand itch – and DNA analysis showed without a trace of doubt that the blood belonged to the deceased. The thought it may be fabricated evidence did cross their mind, but further analysis shot down that theory as well: the blood had been fresh and in no way preserved.

While they failed to find out how a such thing was possible, they found... something among the man's files that caught their eye: ties to several clinics, ties he had done his utmost to keep hidden. It was a lead, they supposed, the _only_ lead, and after reporting about their discovery they were sent to infiltrate in one clinic each. The Yatagarasu was disappointed by the decision, claiming she was curious to see him dressed up as a nurse – and was later disappointed to find out he was to pose as a security guard; one less excuse for her to laugh for no good reason – but there wasn't much she could do about it.

She was the first one to find something, a few days afterward, and things from there had been... hectic. What looked like cases of medical malpractice brushed under the rug by the clinics' management had started to look like something far more sinister.

"They've been experimenting on their patients," the Phantom had finally muttered as the looked through the e-mail of one of the clinics' lead doctors, one Anne Thrax. He could tell, from the look the Yatagarasu gave him, that he was speaking aloud what they had both been thinking. "Deliberately. The management must know; they wouldn't have covered this much without questions otherwise."

"Experimenting _what_, though?"

"Unless you're hoping to dream the answer tonight, that's what we have to work on next."

"Assuming _they_ let us keep going. They may decide this is nothing of interest for them."

"Nothing of interest? Experiments on humans in clinics with dubious ties to a politician who recently died in unexplained circumstances and whose death we were sent to look into?"

"... Fair point. Exciting, isn't it?"

He didn't precisely find any of it exciting – it was his _work_, nothing more and nothing less – so he hadn't felt much of anything when they were told to continue with their work there. Some more investigation had led them to find out there were _contacts_ between the clinics and what was supposed to be medical center for homeless people... at least on paper. "Heavy security for a medical center for homeless people, don't you think?" the Yatagarasu had said as they observed the outline of the building they obtained by hacking into one of the clinics' network. The building made him think of something closer to a fort, with cameras and likely guards around the perimeter.

He had nodded. "There is certainly more to it than they're letting by. And yet we have seen several people being brought there."

"But none of them leaving. Bet you a wig and spirit gum that the number of the homeless in the area has been going down since when the place opened."

"More experiments, then. They must have figured it would be less risky this way. The homeless come and go; few would notice, and even less would look for them. Besides, the police here must have been bribed to turn in a blind eye," he had added. It wasn't hard to imagine how, considering that a politician had been involved somehow. Only that now he was dead in unclear circumstances. "Let's report back."

They did report, and neither was too surprised by the order that followed: infiltrate the place, find out who or what was behind it all, and _leave_.

_That place is of no big importance_, the message they received read. _Find out who the puppeteer is and leave. Let someone else deal with the pawns. We want you back in the States as soon as you have that information_.

Which is exactly what they did, and now they're on their way back to the States knowing that this YggdraCorp is behind it... whatever _it_ is. The Phantom supposes the US government must know or suspect what the experiments may be about, which would explain why he and the Yatagarasu were told to find out who was behind the business and nothing else.

But all he and the Yatagarasu have right now is a dead politician, unclear circumstances and a couple of clinics that have a thing for using humans as lab rats. They can't even tell _how_ it all fits together, or if the politician's unexplained death and this odd side business of his are indeed connected.

Still...

_If he wasn't lying, this is _huge_. YggdraCorp is a leading company in its field_.

The Phantom looks back down at the tablet the Yatagarasu gave him. He supposes that knowing at least something about this YggraCorp will help: after all, as she pointed out, they _are_ rather likely to get the assignment of infiltrating it. He may as well start to learn something about it now.

_Based in Los Angeles, California, Yggdra Corp is one of the world's leading nanobiology comp-_

… Wait, what?

"Something wrong, _sweetie_?"

The Phantom turns to glare at the Yatagarasu – who, of course, is looking at him with an amused smirk... but also somewhat intently. Inwardly cursing himself for letting anything show, the Phantom turns away from her to stare down at the tablet once more. "Nothing, _cupcake_," he mutters as a response, finishing his glass of wine before turning his attention back to the tablet's screen. He knows she can tell exactly _what_ is wrong, but he's not going to admit it. As long as he doesn't say anything about it, she can only assume.

_Based in Los Angeles, California._

Of course, it couldn't be some place on the other side of the world. Oh no. It just _had_ to be good old L.A.

_Blackquill is there. I can't go back there. I _can't.

But he must if so _they_ want. If they give them the assignment, as they likely _will_, he'll have to go back to Los Angeles whether he wants it or not. There would be no way for him to argue against the decision without someone wondering about the reason why... and he cannot allow himself to let the people who _own_ him that he has any weakness. Not when the risk is that of being put down like a dog that can no longer walk and perform the tricks it was trained for.

"Hey, why the long face?" the Yatagarasu laughs. "Lighten up. Los Angeles is a big place. The odds of running into your ex are pretty low," she says, then she pauses and tilts her head on one side. "Does that make you feel better or worse?" she inquires. The Phantom chooses to entirely ignore the way she just referred to Blackquill. That's just about the last thing he wants to start arguing about.

"I have no idea what you're talking about," he says flatly, gaze fixed on the screen. "It doesn't make me feel anything. Now, if you don't mind, I'd like to read about this YggdraCorp. _You_ said I should, didn't you?"

"Fine, fine. No need to get pissy," she says. The unnerving grin is still on her lips, but at least she's turning to the window in silence. The Phantom waits for a few moments, but she doesn't speak again. Good.

He goes back to read about YggdraCorp, willing himself to chase away the sense of dread that pervaded him for a moment when he read exactly where the company is based. The Yatagarasu may be insufferable most of the time, but she's right on at least one thing: Los Angeles is a large city, and the chances of meeting Blackquill are ridiculously slim. Now that he thinks about it logically, he has to wonder what made him think it was even a real possibility.

What are the _odds_?

* * *

"... That is all. The court is adjourn- is Detective Gumshoe trying to _smother_ the defendant?"

Athena smiles up at the judge. "I think that's just a hug, Your Honor. A, uh... tight hug," she adds when she notices that Maggey is a little blue in the face even though she's still smiling. Detective Gumshoe sure is relieved, but then again he has all reasons to: even though they managed to prove Maggey's innocence, there were a couple of close calls they could have done without.

She turns away from the scene and looks over at the prosecutor's bench. She's about to call out for Simon to join them for a nice bowl of noodles, but she pauses when she notices he's frowning down at a slip of paper. It's no surprise that he's not entirely satisfied: they got Maggey off the hook, but the real culprit's identity still evades them. After a moment's hesitation, Athena walks away from the defense's bench – Mr. Wright is finally getting Detective Gumshoe to let go of Maggey so that she can _breathe, _and apparently doesn't need her help – and approaches him. "Hey, Simon. Is something wrong?" she asks.

Simon nods at her and puts down the slip of paper he's been looking at – the autopsy report. "Yes. Something doesn't add up with the autopsy report," he replies. Athena can guess exactly what he's talking about.

The victim, one Stan Doff, was found dead in his office on Monday morning; according to the autopsy he had been killed with a blow on the head, and he had been dead the whole weekend – which placed his time of death on Friday night. And Maggey, who worked as a receptionist for him, had been the last person to leave the offices that day... and to see him alive. That had been enough to put her on top of the suspects list, especially since no one else had the keys aside for herself and the victim.

Except that she and Mr. Wright had been able to find proof that the victim was alive on Sunday afternoon: he had taken some money from an ATM machine, and the security footage showed clearly it had been him there, alive and well; the money he took was still in his wallet. The time of death having been moved forward, there was nothing to uphold the claim Maggey had done it and she was found not guilty. But Simon is right: there is _still_ the problem with the autopsy report, which states clearly the victim had been dead for at least two full days before being found. If he was alive on Sunday afternoon, that's simply impossible.

"Maybe there was a mistake?" Athena suggests halfheartedly. It would be a _big_ mistake to make, though.

"It seems the only explanation," Simon says, but he doesn't look convinced, either. "Yet... I have seen the body. I'll spare you the details, but that man _can't_ have been dead for one night only."

Athena frowns. "But we know he was alive on Sunday, so... maybe the body was tampered with somehow?"

"Perhaps. It escapes me _how_ that could be possible, but I'm hardly an expert. I'll have to talk with your friend in the forensics team about this. Further investigation is in order; we have yet to find the murderer, after all."

"Oh, sure! I bet Ema would be glad to help. And you can count on me as well!"

Blackquill chuckles. "If Gumshoe keeps refusing to break away from his wife, I may indeed find myself in need of another partner for my investigation," he says, finally putting the autopsy report away. "But this can wait until later, I suppose. If I'm not mistaken, Detective Gumshoe said something about noodles."

Athena grins. "Sure! You've got to come with us. Apollo will be there, too. He already won his trial," she adds, then she lets her smile fade and draws in a deep breath. "Actually, after that I was thinking of... I'd like to pay a visit. It's... two years today, isn't it?" she says, and Simon's small smile fades as well.

"Yes. I'm aware of it," he says quietly, not looking at her. He doesn't like talking about LaRoche's execution any more than she does; she can tell his death still pains him. "I take it you mean to pay your respects?"

She nods. "Yes," is all she says. She feels like she should. No one aside from herself and Simon _would_, and what is the point in having a grave – with a _name_ on it, just like he wanted – if no one ever visits it?

Simon nods. "I suppose it's only fitting that I come as well," is all he says. She can tell it's all he wishes to say at the moment, so she's quick to turn the conversation back to the salty noodles they're about to have.

* * *

"... when we made it here the spy was gone, and both Harv and Paul were dead. See, Paul was right there, in a pool of blood. Christ, I'm not getting the mental image out of my brain as long as I live."

The man – who's tall and slim, with black hair barely shot through with gray and eyes so dark irises and pupils are hard to tell apart – hums, staring at the bloodstain still on the floor. "How was he exactly killed?"

"Stabbed through the neck from behind, Mr... huh..."

"Outis," the man supplies, giving him a friendly smile. "That's how I go by these days. Such I am called by mother, father, and by all my comrades," he proclaims somewhat dramatically. The guard just gapes at him, and he gives a disappointed sigh. "I take it Homer's Odyssey wasn't part of your education. Pity."

"I, uh... no. Sorry, sir."

He chuckles. "Now, now. No need to apologize. I'm certain there are plenty of things you know that I ignore. To each their own," he says jovially, then he turns back to the blood stain. "What of the other guard?"

"The other- oh. Right. Harv was shot. In the head, just once. Sir," the guard adds quickly. A lot of the guards there keep adding 'sir' like it's an afterthought, but Outis isn't too surprised: it must be odd for them to be instructed to talk about what happened to a complete stranger, someone they never before met or heard of.

But then again, if a simple guard _did_ hear of him it would mean he's not so good at his job. And he _is_ good, which is why he was hired. This is the work of spies, after all – and if you need a thief to catch a thief, what do you need to catch a spy? "I was told the spy who was captured and held here had an accomplice. One who escaped capture," Outis says, his voice calm. He brings a cigarette up to his lips and inhales.

He went through most of his life thinking that smoking was quite the ugly habit, but he picked it up after the organization he worked for was almost entirely dissolved thanks to a high profile spy being caught and spilling the beans. A pity, especially since he had always thought of _that_ one as the best he ever trained. He was almost sorry when he was executed in the States: having _made_ him the spy he was, Outis would have liked to be the one to put him down – like you'd put down a once-prized racing horse with a broken leg.

Ah well. Things don't always go the way they should, as the blood stain before him proves.

"Yes, sir. Doug – the guard who caught the spy, I mean – said as much. He said that her accomplice fled, and send some of us to look for him while he brought the spy here and went to call for Paul to- sir?" the guard calls out, clearly taken aback, when the man chuckles.

"Tell me," he says, finally turning to face the guard. "Where is this Doug? I'd like to have a word with him."

The guard shakes his head. "That won't be possible, sir. I was getting there – he died as well. We started a search when we realized he was missing. We found him in his apartment. He was stabbed through the heart."

The man isn't at all surprised to hear that. "If you want my two cents on the matter, this _Doug_ was already dead by the time the spy was caught."

"What? But it was him to catch her!"

"Wrong," Outis says, taking one last drag of his cigarette before putting it out against the wall and putting the butt in his pocket. He's not going to leave any of his DNA in a place that will be soon swarming with Interpol agents. "Someone else took his place that day; the spy's accomplice. Oh, and she was never _caught_ to begin with. Her accomplice posed as this Doug and pretended to have caught her trying to sneak in."

"But... why?"

"To gather information. What else?" Outis says, and gives another chuckle at the man's stunned expression. "They expected someone in charge would want to question her, and so it happened. They were both in this room, alone with your chief. It takes little for a decent spy to get information out of a man who thinks he's on top of the game. By killing him, they made sure we wouldn't know _what_ he told them."

The guard shakes his head. "This is crazy. That was _Doug_, I tell you!"

"Or an especially skilled actor," the man counters. He gives a faint smile. "You know, I once trained a spy who showed plenty of promise. Quite a catch, that one: no past, no conscience, no emotions. Once we rid him of that pesky sense of _self_ he still had, he could become anyone he wished. Anyone. By the time his training was done, he could have fooled even me. He was my _masterpiece_. If the man who took this Doug's place was even half as skilled, I can't blame you for falling for the act. I'll tell the bigwigs not to be too hard on you guys," he adds, giving the stunned guard an affable pat on the shoulder before walking out of the cell.

The guard follows him, clearly livid with anger. "That _bitch_," he growls. "She even mocked us while her accomplice sent us out to look for... for her accomplice. She told us to 'have fun looking for a ghost'. I thought she was just fucking with us, but now that we know Doug was already dead- sir?" he calls out in surprise when he realizes the other man stopped walking abruptly and is now standing still, lost in thought.

"Looking for a ghost," Outis repeats slowly. There is something bothering him, a sudden hunch he can't ignore. "Is this _exactly_ what she said?"

"Uh? Yeah, more or less-"

"No, my friend. More or less won't do at all. I want her _exact_ words," the man cuts him off, turning back to the guard and causing him to hastily step back. "Did she say just that? That you were looking for a _ghost_?"

The man fidgets. "Well... I think she said 'phantom' rather than 'ghost', but yeah, that's more or- I-I mean..."

That's all Outis needs to hear. "I'm taking this assignment," he cuts him off. "Call your superiors and let them know that." As he watches the guard quickly leaving to do as he asked, he reaches for another cigarette. He takes one long draw and releases the smoke in a slow breath, his brow furrowed in thought.

Perhaps his hunch is wrong; perhaps the choice of words means nothing. Perhaps there simply _is_ some other master of disguise out there who goes by that name. Still... it's worth a try, isn't it? _That_ one faked his death more than once already, after all. And even if this spy is not _him_, the assignment is worth taking. S_omeone_ infiltrated this place, after all, leaving with dangerous information YggdraCorp wouldn't want to get out.

And YggdraCorp pays very, very well to keep its secrets... _secret_.


	3. Crossroads

There is absolutely nothing remarkable about Robert LaRoche's grave.

Blackquill can't help but think, with no small amount of bitter amusement, that it's quite fitting. He remembers thinking the same of LaRoche's true face the first time he saw it: unremarkable, with nothing about it that caught the eye aside from the scar on his forehead.

And now it is the same with his grave: a plain thing, with a name and two dates written on it. There isn't even a picture, which is also so very fitting: it's a grave he's pass right by if it wasn't for the fact _that_ name is painfully familiar.

Robert LaRoche.

_Robert_. LaRoche was shaking and clinging to him when he had spoken that name for the first time, eyes bright and feverish and voice hoarse from screaming. He had repeated that name over and over and, like a broken disk_. Robert. My name is Robert_.

So much work to find that name, that identity, and here's all it was good for – to make his grave somewhat distinguishable to the few people who know that name... and the even fewer who'd want to find it to begin with. Which is to say, himself and Athena – two of the people LaRoche damaged the most. Fate has a way of turning everything around, Blackquill muses. And everyone called _him_ twisted.

"It's... quiet here," Athena speaks up beside him, finally breaking a long silence. Blackquill turns to look at her. She's clearly saddened – not that it's hard to miss, considering that widget shows everything she feels – and her hands are holding tightly on the small paper bag she brought. Liquorice strings, she had told him when he asked, then she had given him a small smile.

"It must sound so stupid," she had said. "But... well, he liked this stuff. It must have felt so odd to him, realizing that he _liked_ something. He didn't have likes or dislikes of his own for a long time," she had added.

Blackquill had nodded at her. "I don't think it's stupid," he had told her, then he had turned back to the grave. "As you recall, he also developed a taste for the best brandy money could buy. The best brandy _my_ money could buy, to be painfully exact," he had added, but his chuckle held no true amusement and he didn't even care that she could probably tell. He recalled bringing a bottle of that brandy in LaRoche's cell the night before his execution, two years before – and he recalled LaRoche's surprise.

"_... Is that brandy?"_

"_You seem to be rather fond on it, and I happened to have a spare bottle. I can promise you, no poison has tainted it."_

"_Hah. Like that would make much difference now. You're not planning on making me have my last drink on my own, are you?"_

He hadn't, nor he had planned on making him spend his last night in this world alone. He thought back of that night often in the days that followed the execution, the mixture of emotions raging in his chest almost unbearable. But as time passed and the wound began to heal, he could tell that at least regret was not among them. He made mistakes in his life, and he paid for each of them dearly... but that was not one.

He knows now that he would have regretted letting him walk on the gallows without seeing him that one last time. Anger and shame may have never left him, and he'd have had to live the rest of his days feeling as though the Phantom, _his phantom_, was still there – taunting him, but forever unreachable.

Now he can even think about LaRoche – not of _Fulbright_, never of that one mask; the sense of betrayal is still far too strong to allow it – without bitterness. There is sorrow, yes: sorrow for the lives and years that were lost, for the man LaRoche could have been hadn't his soul been taken from him... but the bitter anger that was his constant companion for seven years no longer burns in his chest.

"... Cemeteries aren't known for being especially noisy places," he finally speaks, turning back to the grave. They've been standing in silence for a while, neither of them truly knowing what they could even say.

It's odd to see Athena so silent, even in a cemetery. Actually, she'd won't stop speaking when they visit her mother's grave together: she talks and talks, as though they're back in Kurain and they're staring right at her again as she looks back at them from Maya Fey's body. She even talks when they visit Fulbright's grave. Not that much – sometimes they have to remind themselves they never really _met_ the man – but Athena never forgets to salute and exclaim 'in justice we trust!' before moving on.

But the Phantom's grave... that's where she falls silent without fail. "It's getting late. We should head back. I'd rather not be locked in here for the night," Blackquill finds himself adding, and Athena nods.

"That would be creepy," she agrees with a small smile, and steps forward. Blackquill watches in silence as she just puts the paper bag before the grave – it looks so _bare_ with no flowers or tokens, very much unlike Metis Cykes' or Fulbright's – and then steps back again.

Neither of them speaks as they leave. There is nothing left to say, after all, no words that would be fitting.

Only silence.

* * *

**Burgundine, Borginia, 1995**.

Aside from sleeping high up, one of the things about bunk beds that Robb likes most is that it takes just a few minutes to make a tent out of it. Take off the covers, hang them from all sides of the upper bunk and there you go. Okay, maybe the result is closer to a canopy bed with the curtains drawn than to a proper tent, but it still did the trick: that way he and Seymour could use the flashlight without any of the other kids sleeping in the same room complaining.

"So, what happens next?" Robb asks, keeping his voice low so that he won't wake up the others. Most of the others are heavy sleepers, but you can never be too careful. Last night Seymour stopped right on a cliffhanger, and Robb wants to know what happens next now – so he doesn't want anyone to wake up and complain and interrupt the tale. Seymour, who's sitting across him, grins and holds the flashlight under his face. The shadow effect makes him look kinda creepy, but then again that's probably the point.

Robb has come to like this nightly routine more than he expected. They wait a bit after the light out order in the orphanage and then, when they're sure the other guys in the room are sleeping – they don't think they'd rat them out or anything and the orphanage's director is too much of a bleeding heart to punish anyone even if he knew anyway, but the sense of secrecy makes everything better – he climbs down on the lower bunk with Seymour. They hang the covers to make their 'tent' and then Seymour starts telling the story, usually from whatever book he read that day since he's always reading.

It's a fair exchange: Seymour tells a story, Robb brings the candy.

"So, we left off with Odysseus and his companions blocked inside Polyphemus' cave, right?" Seymour is saying. Robb takes a candy from the small sack between them – a liquorice candy, his favorite – and pops it in his mouth before nodding.

"Hu-uh. And Polyphemus ate two of Odysseus' companions before leaving," he says. "How did Odysseus get out of _that_?"

"Hey, one thing at time," Seymour says before he clears his throat and resumes talking in an eerie whisper. "When Polyphemus returned to his cave that evening with his flock, he had no more mercy than he had in the morning. He walked in, blocked the entrance of the cave with a huge rock again, and grabbed two more men. They screamed and screamed, but there was nothing Odysseus could do for them. Polyphemus smashed them against the rocks, and ate them whole."

"Clothes and everything?"

That causes Seymour to frown in thought. "Don't know. The book didn't say anything about undressing, though. Guess he wasn't picky. He ate the bones as well anyway."

"And the content of their stomach and bowels, too."

"And the content of their... _eew_!"

"And also their di-"

"That's not the _point_," Seymour cuts him off with a disgusted grimace "He just ate them. The point of the tale is another. Want to know it or not?"

Robb immediately shuts his mouth and nods. Fun as it is to gross Seymour out, he really wants to know how Odysseus got out of _this_ one. "Fine, fine. Go on," he says, popping another piece of candy in his mouth.

"Good. So, the same thing happened the next morning: Polyphemus took two more men, smashed them on the rocks and ate them before leaving with his flocks, sealing Odysseus and his remaining men inside. But while he was away, Odysseus came up with a plan."

"I knew it!" Robb says, catching himself just on time so that he won't speak aloud. That's why he likes Odysseus – because he's clever and cunning and full of tricks, and can always outsmart everyone and _think_ his way out of trouble. "What did he do?"

"While Polyphemus was away, they took a long pole they found in the cave and sharpened one end, then they hardened it with fire. They hid the stake under straw, so that Polyphemus wouldn't suspect a thing when he got back. When he did, he took two more men. They screamed for Odysseus to help them, but he could do nothing for them. They were smashed against the cave's wall and eaten."

"Whole?"

"Don't even _start_."

"Killjoy. So, what did he _do_?"

Seymour grins again and puts the flashlight back under his face. "After Polyphemus was done eating his comrades, Odysseus stepped forward and offered him wine."

"Wine?"

"Yes. Strong and undiluted, to get him good and drunk. After drinking, Polyphemus asked for Odysseus' name, promising him a gift in exchange. Odysseus told him that his name was Nobody."

Robb blinks. "Nobody?"

"That's what he said, yes. It's something closer to Odysseus in Greek, though. Otis or something. Anyway, that's what it means – nobody."

"But why...?"

"Shh. We'll get to that later. So, Polyphemus promised him that, as a gift, he'd eat him last."

"Charming."

"Not the best host, I agree. But Odysseus got the last laugh, because Polyphemus was so drunk he fell in a deep sleep. So deep that he didn't awaken until they took out the sharpened stake and drove it in his only eye to blind him!"

Seymour speaks the last words in a feral growl, and Robb is entirely caught by surprise when he thrusts the flashlight right before his face, causing him to rear back and shut his eyes. "Hey!" he protests, blinking quickly to get his eyes working again, and he can hear Seymour snickering.

"Imagine if I put out your eye for real," he says, causing Robb to stick out his tongue at him.

"But I have _two_, jerk. So I'd still know my way to your neck," he says, sitting upright again.

Seymour grins. "But Polyphemus only had one. And with that one eye reduced to a gory mess, he was completely blind. Odysseus and his companions hid in the huge cave's nooks, and he was unable to find them. He screamed for the other giants to help him, but when they came outside his cave to ask him what was wrong. 'Who is hurting you?', they asked. And guess what he screamed back?"

Robb barely holds back a laugh. He's starting to see where this is going. "Nobody is hurting me," he says with a grin, which widens when Seymour nods.

"Yup! Polyphemus screamed: 'Nobody! Nobody is hurting me!'. And so they left, telling him that if he felt pain and nobody was hurting him, then his pain came from the gods and he should pray his father, Poseidon, to be healed."

With a snicker, Robb reaches for another candy. That's a good one, he thinks. Of course there was no way Odysseus could know _for sure_ that Polyphemus would be stupid enough to use the name he gave him _that_ way, but still. That was smart thinking. Had the giant been able to tell the others what was going on, Odysseus and his men would have been lost. "So, Polyphemus can't find them. But they're still trapped in. How do they get out?" he asks.

Seymour shrugs. "Don't know."

"What doesn't it mean, you don't know?" Robb protests, starting to frown.

"Hey, the library was closing down and I don't get to bring any books here. I'll go read the rest tomorrow," Seymour says, and turns off the flashlight, leaving both of them in darkness. The room isn't completely dark – the windows let in enough light from the street to see well enough to go around – but the covers around them keep out the light the same way they mostly kept in the flashlight's. "Besides, it's getting late. We should get some slee- hey!" Seymour protests when Robb sighs dramatically and throws himself on him, causing them both to land in a heap on the mattress. "Get off!"

"But I'm tiiiired," Robb whines, clinging to Seymour's torso. "I don't want to climb _all_ the way up to my bunk, mommy!"

Seymour sighs, his attempts at getting Robb – who's both taller and bigger than him – off him ceasing. "You're too lazy to put your covers back in place, aren't you?"

"That too. So, can I stay? Pretty please?" Robb says in a perfect impression of a little girl's voice. Beneath him, Seymour chuckles.

"Okay, okay, you can stay – just get _off_ me!" he mutters, and Robb grins before rolling off him and hogging both pillows. There is a bit of squabbling over them – _quiet_ squabbling, because they have to keep their voices low not to wake the others up – which ends as it always does: with one pillow each... because Robb was nice enough to let him yank one from his grasp, of course.

There is some shifting next, because the bunk is narrow and they have to rest very close to fit in, but Robb doesn't really mind: the room gets kind of chilly at night and the covers aren't always enough, so getting to share come body heat isn't that bad. It doesn't even matter that Seymour's black hair is tickling his nose a bit.

"Hey, birdbrain?"

"What?" Seymour mutters sleepily. He yawns and reaches to yank the blankets they're sharing a little further up over both of them.

":.. Nothing. It's just that I realized I hadn't called you birdbrain the whole day. That wouldn't do," Robb says, and chuckles when Seymour snorts and elbows him in the ribs before settling down again.

* * *

"_Ah!"_

The Yatagarasu is not surprised at all when the Phantom gasps and sits up on the couch, drawing in long breaths and bringing a hand up to his head. She's been watching him toss and turn for a bit in the faint light coming from the window – the most interesting thing to look at in that hotel room, which says a lot about how boring it is – and she expected him to awaken with a start at some point.

She reaches for the nightstand beside the bed she's resting on – "ladies first", she told him before taking over the bed and leaving the couch to him – and turns on the light. The Phantom hisses shuts his eyes against it. "I take it you forgot to take your dream suppressants," she comments. He takes a pill every evening to keep himself from dreaming at all. Since _this_ is what happens every time he forgets to take it or has no chance to, she can definitely see why.

"They ran out. The assignment took too long," the Phantom grits out, a hand pressed against his forehead.

"Don't you _ever_ have pleasant dreams?"

The Phantom snorts and reaches for the backpack on the floor right by the couch. He pulls out what the Yatagarasu recognizes as migraine medication. Unlike the dream suppressant he uses – a drug that's not supposed to be even distributed, let alone used with no medical supervisions – that kind of medication can be bought everywhere. "Whether or not the dream itself was pleasant is irrelevant. It's what comes _next_ I'm not fond on," he mutters before gulping down a couple of pills without water. That's unsurprising, too: he has a tendency to get terrible migraines whenever a memory from _before_ comes back to surface... which can happen when he's sleeping and his guard is down, having taken no drug to prevent it.

"Was Blackquill involved this time around?"

The Phantom stiffens for a moment, but he replies with a flat voice. "The dead won't stay dead. That's all."

"Your friend?" she guesses. She knows little enough of the Phantom's past, though not _that_ much less than the Phantom himself, but she knows of this boy the Phantom grew up with, this Seymour. She knows he died in the same incident that resulted with the Phantom losing all his memories and great part of his emotional spectrum. _Those_ seem to have come back, at least partially, but of course his friend never did... if not in his dreams. He doesn't seem to be a welcomed presence.

The Phantom doesn't reply to her question; he hardly ever does whenever his past is involved. "Turn off the light," is all he says, leaning back down on the couch.

"Shouldn't you take the dream suppressant as well?"

"They never come back more than once the same night. Turn off the light," he repeats. His voice is flat, but he's screwing his eyes shut against the pain and she decides to just keep quiet and do as she's told for once. There will be plenty of occasions to mock him when he's feeling better, she decides. Maybe tomorrow, when someone comes to pick them up from the hotel and lead them to the headquarters.

Well, _before_ then; maybe over breakfast. She knows better than bringing up that little problem of his in front of anyone who might consider it a fatal flaw.

She lies awake for a time, listening. The Phantom's breathing turns slower after a time, more regular, which can either mean he's asleep or that he's pretending to be. It's hard to tell with him.

The Yatagarasu stops listening soon enough, but she can't quite fall asleep yet. She keeps stating at the ceiling, wondering what must it be like to have memories from _before_. She has them, sure enough: she remembers the institution she grew up in, she remember the first name she had – but it's the name Alba chose for her, not _hers_. When the Phantom remembers his life _before_, he remembers a boy called Robert LaRoche. She has no clue what her birth name used to be: she was too young when it was taken by war along with everything else. To her, there is almost no _before_. Almost, because there _is_ something, but it's so muddled an distant it feels more like a long-faded dream than a proper memory. She was barely one year old, perhaps, so young that she knows the memory – those bits and pieces of one – is not even supposed to be there at all.

A deafening sound of gunfire, shattering glass, screams. A smell – blood and smoke and gunpowder; even though she couldn't recognize them as such back then, she can tell now . More screams, shouts, _orders_. Then someone picking her up and running for what felt like an eternity, away from the smoke and fire and cries. But the smell of blood and gunpowder was still there, right on the rough fabric her face was pressed onto.

A Cohdopian army uniform, she would think later, but that only shows how muddled the memory is, how tainted by perceptions from _later_. General Alba had been wearing civilian clothes when he had torn her away from death's maw: she simply thought it was an uniform because that was the clothing she would come to associate him with later. Much later, when her _legal tutor_ would bother to see her again sixteen years later.

The Yatagarasu lifts herself on her elbows and glances at the Phantom's still form on the couch, then at the box of medication he left on the floor after taking a couple of pills.

If that's what remembering _before_ feels like, maybe it's a good thing she has little to remember to begin with.

* * *

"Those _bastards_!"

Agent Lang's words came out as a feral growl as he tore his gaze away from yet another empty room. He walks back to the hallway most of his men were standing in, anger barely in check. They were so close to a breakthrough, so _close_ – but it's now obvious that those rats have packed up and left, taking any proof of the activities he _knows_ were carried on in that facility away with them.

While the Interpol is certain that someone has been conducting human experiments here, there is nothing left to prove it... and the only target whose name they knew, a local politician, died in unclear circumstances days before they could get him. Raiding this place may have been their only way to learn more, and yet they turned out with _nothing_. Or almost.

"We have found something, sir," one of his men had told him, standing rigidly before him. "Luminol revealed a large bloodstain in a room on the ground floor, plus a few smaller ones that appear to be drips. There may be enough traces for some DNA testing."

Lang had nodded back at him. It's not much, but it's better than nothing... and it appears to be all the information they'll manage to get from this blasted place. "Lang Zi says: search where the water is deepest. Do take samples and have the tests run immediately. Highest priority. And take several samples in different spots. The blood may belong to several people. _Go_."

And the man is coming back just now, which is the only thing that keeps Lang from further cursing against the worms they're after: perhaps the blood samples will give them a lead to follow, something that could at least make this raid and all the work behind it worthwhile.

"I have the results, sir," his man speaks, but something about his tone and posture isn't quite right – and it doesn't escape Lang how his gaze shifts away from him as he speaks.

"Well?" he asks, reading himself for a negative answer. It's not what it gets.

"There... there is a match with our database, sir. The blood in the room belonged to two individuals. We could identify one of them," is the reply. It's good news, but his subordinate still avoids to look at him as he handles him a slip of paper. Lang frowns in mild confusion as he takes it and looks down at it.

And then he can tell exactly why his subordinate won't look at him while speaking.

_MATCH FOUND  
Code: 24601-2019  
Name: Unknown.  
Known Aliases: Calisto Yew; Shih-na  
Status: Unknown.  
Highest Priority for Capture._

For several moments, all Lang can do is stare. There is a cracking noise he doesn't pay any attention to; he simply opens his hand to let the remains of his sunglasses fall on the floor and looks back up at the subordinate who just gave him the report. Who, on the other hand, is standing rigidly and sweating profusely.

_Her blood. Why is her blood here? Was she hurt? Was she killed?_

Lang chases away the thought from his mind like a wolf chasing a scavenger off its prey. No, it cannot be – he can't allow it to be. She's _his_ to deal with, and he won't let anyone take that from him. "You said that you found blood of two individuals," he finally says slowly. "You also said there was a large bloodstain and a few smaller ones. Which one was _hers_?"

"Her blood sample was taken from a small drop, sir. The rest of the blood belonged to someone else. Someone who's unlikely to have survived after such a loss of blood, I may add."

Lang nods, eyes turning back to the results of the DNA testing. This is good to know: while something did happen to her – something that caused her to lose a small amount of blood – there is nothing indicating she may have been killed. Lang gives a barking laugh. It's almost amusing how a single drop of blood gave her away – just as one single drop of blood damned Quercus Alba once. He turns to his men with a predatory smile. "I want you to scour this place from top to bottom. _Now_."

"But we already-"

"You'll do it again!" Lang cuts him off with a snarl. "And again and _again_ until something comes up! Lang Zi says: successful investigations are the result of multiple returns to a crime scene. Now go!"

As his subordinates scatter in all directions, their hurried footsteps echoing in the hallway, Lang looks down to realize he crushed the sheet of paper in his hand without realizing it – much like he crushed his sunglasses. And he liked those glasses, too. _Shih-na_ is going to have quite a lot to answer for when he finally captures her once again... and this time there will be no great escape for her. He'll make sure of it.

"What were you _doing_ in this place?" Lang asks aloud. He receives no answer but the fading sound of his subordinates' footsteps.

* * *

"_... Do you have any last words?"_

_LaRoche recoils and looks over the glass wall separating the gallows from them before he closes his eyes not to see the noose and speaks. "Prosecutor Blackquill," he calls out. "I... Blackquill, I..." his voice fades, and he falls silent for a few moments before he can resume speaking. "Prosecutor Blackquill. Miss Cykes. Thank you. For... for giving me a name, for making me _someone_. Thank you for for not giving up on me. And..." he hesitates now, and needs to draw in another breath, and he's about to speak again..._

… then the Steel Samurai tune rings, causing Blackquill to awaken with a start and covered in cold sweat. His mind reels, and it takes him a few moments to realize his cell phone is ringing. He slams a hand on the light switch and grabs the cell phone with the other one, narrowing his eyes against the sudden glare.

"Who?" he snaps, his voice still hoarse with sleep. He refuses to let himself think of what he awoke from.

"Good morning to you, too," an unimpressed voice comes from the other side of the line.

He snarls, immediately taking the opportunity to distract himself from the dream – the _memory_ – with anger.

"Skye. I trust you have an extremely valid reason to call me at this ungodly hour of the morning."

"Hey, it's... what, still five thirty?"

"It is _ungodly_. Does this mean you spent the night at the precinct?"

"Looks like it. I wasn't paying much attention at the time. It was for _science_. Anyway, I have news!"

Ema Skye sounds so pleased that Blackquill can't help but worry. "I trust no ill fate has befallen Prosecutor Gavin by your hand," he says. It's unclear to him why she dislikes Prosecutor Gavin so much, but she does dislike him quite a lot and he'd rather not have to accuse _another_ detective of murder.

She hums, and with the mind's eye he can just _see_ her shrugging. "Not by my hand, no."

"... Does that mean something did happen to him?"

There is another hum and then the sound of chewing. "Not that I know, but a girl can dream," she says. She can't seem to keep herself from guzzling down those sugar-coated snacks of hers even while talking; it's a habit he finds rather annoying, but he knows that more than a few people may complain just as much about his habit of holding a feather between his lips. "So, do you want the news or not? It's about Stan Doff. You know, the one who was a bit too alive for a dead guy on Sunday evening."

That causes Blackquill's tiredness to vanish. "Have you found out something?"

"Well, I ran some tests on the tissue samples. Some tests I came up with, no conventional crap."

Blackquill shuts his eyes and holds back a sigh. Typical. "And I suppose it's not a formally _approved_ one."

"Hmph. They're late with approval, that's all. They're too slow. Law can't stop _science_," she says.

That's rather worrying coming from a one of the precincts' forensic experts. "Law is there for a _reason_."

Skye sighs. "Oh, come on. You sound all the world like Bobby used to, you know," she says, and Blackquill finds himself unable to say anything to that. Skye pauses, too, and they share a few moments of silence before she speaks again."Alright, listen. It may not be conventional, but it _worked_. It shows something the other tests failed to pick up. Isn't that the important part?"

Blackquill supposes she has a point. It's not like he can object to someone using less than strictly legal means to obtain something important: claiming the guilt of a crime he didn't commit wasn't precisely legal, either, but he hadn't hesitated to do so when it came to choosing between that and Athena's life and happiness.

"Fair enough," he finally says. "What did you find?"

"_Something_."

"... I have grasped as much. Would you care to elaborate?"

Skye sighs. "Okay, I'll try to make it simple," she says. Back when they first began working together from time to time she'd eagerly explain the scientific details to him, but she's since come to realize he's not enough of an expert to really make enough sense out of technicalities. "Decomposition is caused by two factors: autolysis and putrefaction. Putrefaction is the breakdown of tissues by bacteria. Autolysis is the breaking down of tissues by the body's own internal chemicals and enzymes; the very beginning of a body's degradation, starting about four or five minutes after death. There is something odd about that here."

"Something odd?"

"Yes. To make it baby simple for you, it's like autolytic cell destruction started _before_ the victim's death."

Blackquill blinks, any protest he was about to voice for her dismissal of his scientific understanding dying in his throat. "Are you saying that the body's own internal chemicals and enzymes began breaking down the tissues while the victim was still _alive_?"

"Hu-uh," she replies through a mouthful of her usual snacks. "I figure that would be painful, rotting alive. But the guy seemed pretty healthy when he took the money from some ATM the night before dying, right?"

Blackquill nods, even though he knows Skye cannot see him doing so. "He seemed perfectly alright. So what you're saying is that he began _rotting alive_ in the hours between Sunday evening and Monday morning?"

"It seems the only explanation that would make any amount of sense, yes. Which isn't much, considering that it _doesn't_ make sense. How could something like that even happen? And that _fast_? The body was so decayed even_ I _thought he must have been dead for at least three days!"

"If you can't think of an explanation, Skye, I can't see how can you expect me to," Blackquill says drily. "Do write a detailed report and have Gumshoe deliver it to my desk as soon as he shows up," he adds, and hangs the phone without even waiting for a reply. He'll likely get a few snacks thrown at him for that later – snacks he'll slice in mid-air with practiced ease, as usual – but right now his mind is entirely taken by other matters.

While they have no explanation on how this may have been possible, what Skye found may just change everything – starting with the cause of death, so far believed to be a blow on the head. He can't think of any natural way that could lead someone's body to start rotting while they're still alive; not quickly enough to kill them in hours and make them look like a several days old corpse upon discovery the next morning.

But then again, murder is rarely a natural occurrence... and the wound on the victim's head proves this to be a murder, or at least something somebody wanted to pass as one. But what could possibly cause a body to deteriorate in such a way...?

Blackquill leaves his bed and walks up to his desk, and glances down at some of the case's documents he brought with him for further reading. With Gumshoe's wife – Maggey, was it not? – as the prime suspect, it was assumed that the murder's motive had something to do with money; perhaps, the police had suggested, the victim had caught his secretary stealing from him. But now that Maggey's innocence has been proved without doubt, it's likely that the motive was entirely different. They're going to have to look more closely to the Stan Doff's life to understand what the motive may have been; and, after the conversation he's had with Skye, Blackquill has a gut feeling that the man's work just might be something to look into.

The victim's profile is among them, and it's the first thing Blackquill picks up. He opens it, and there it is – the role Mr. Doff used to have in a company whose name Blackquill couldn't recall.

_R&D supervisor for YggdraCorp, Los Angeles_.

* * *

"Stan Doff? Who in the blazes _is_ this Stan Doff?"

Lang's snarl causes some of his men to recoil, but he barely acknowledges that. Honestly, when he was told that the investigation had led to finding some fingerprints that could be identified he had expected the name to belong to at least one of the suspect names they already had – but this one name tells him absolutely _nothing_. The subordinate he spoke to looks back down at the tablet the information is being displayed on.

"It appears to be an American, sir. R&D supervisor for YggdraCorp."

That is a surprise, too: it's not a name Lang has heard until now. "What the hell _is_ YggdraCorp?"

"I'm requesting more information from the headquarters as we speak, sir," his subordinate replies. "As for this Stan Doff, he Resides in Los Angeles and... _oh_."

The surprised noise that leaves the man causes Lang to frown. "What is it?"

"He... he appears to have recently died in his office in LA, sir. In odd circumstances very reminiscing of those of our, uh, previous target. It seems that-" he trails off with a yelp when Lang takes the tabled from his hands and stares down at it for a few moments, eyes narrowed. Then, slowly, he smiles and looks back up.

"If this isn't connected, then I'm Little Red Hiding Hood. Call the headquarters. Tell them the investigation is moving to Los Angeles. As for me, I'm going to call an old friend in LA for support," he adds, and gives a low laugh. "I'm certainly he's going to be delighted to know our mutual _friend_ is back in the picture."

* * *

"See, I _told_ you we'd be getting the assignment. I've got to say I kinda missed Los Angeles. Didn't you?"

The Phantom gives his partner a blank look. They have just been told the assignments is theirs – no real surprise there – but are still waiting to see someone who'll tell them what they're precisely after... and whose identities they'll need to take.

"What I'm missing now are a few minutes of blessed silence," he says. However slim the chances of running in anyone he knows during this missions are, he can't say the thought of going back to LA fills him with joy.

Not that there are many things that _do_, if any. But her incessant talking isn't helping matters.

The Yatagarasu gives a snort of a laugh, applying some more make-up to hide her still swollen lip. "Stop being so serious. I'm sure it will be fun."

"Your idea of _fun_ is questionable to say the least," the Phantom says, standing up from his seat when a door at the far end of the room opens and an agent gestures for them to go in – to be told more about their new assignment, no doubt. She laughs, and gets up as well.

"Oh, come on now. We had fun that time in Allebahst."

"You and I remember Allebahst very differently," he says dully.

* * *

_A/N: yes, the last line is a reference to The Avengers. I promised someone I'd slip in some from time to time, and I did._ XD


	4. Monsters

"Trucy, are you _sure_ you know what you're doing...?"

"Of course I'm sure! I've been practicing for a long time, in case you missed it!"

"Then why do you have to practice more on _me_?"

"Prosecutor Blackquill gave me some tips I want to try out. He says I should flick my wrist a certain way. Don't worry, I already tried with other targets and I got them most times!"

"_Most times_ is not enough! Athena, won't you say some- stop grinning like that!"

Athena snickers, a hand pressing over her mouth. There are few things as amusing as watching Trucy forcing Apollo to help her practice her tricks – even when said tricks are... well, potentially dangerous. But then again it didn't happen too often to see Apollo with his back against the wall, balancing an apple on his head and worriedly staring at the throwing knife in Trucy's hand.

"Aw, don't worry. She's good. You'll be safe. Besides, Simon taught her. There is nothing to worry about."

Apollo drops his shoulders, nearly causing the apple to fall off his head. "Are you serious? In my books that's one _more_ reason to be worried. I wouldn't be surprised if he suggested her to hit me on purpose."

Athena brings a hand up to her mouth, pretending to be shocked. Truth to be told, she wouldn't be surprised to know he suggested her to do just that: his sense of humor is more than slightly morbid. "_Sacré bleu!_ The nerve! Are you truly saying he'd be capable of a such thing?"

"_Yes._"

Trucy grins, twirling the knife between her fingers. "Well, he said something about trying to cut off his antennae with a good throw, really... but I'll stick with the apple. For now."

"How about sticking to a good, old-fashioned target?" Apollo mutters.

"Or we could paint one on your forehead. It's so big and shiny!" Athena suggests innocently, and grins at Apollo's exasperated look.

"You've been hanging with Prosecutor Gavin again, haven't you?" he grumbles.

"Ja."

"Don't you have anything _else_ to talk about? Like, don't know, trials? Evidence? German jargon?"

"We also talk a lot about your hair. And the face you make when you lose faith in humanity. Yup, that one!"

"Enough talking! I've got to practice here," Trucy speaks up, lifting the knife. "C'mon, Polly, keep still..."

"Wha-? No, wait-" Apollo starts, but he's cut off by the sound of the front door opening. That immediately prompts Trucy to hide the knife and do her best to look totally innocent, which is not surprise: Athena knows Mr. Wright is not a big fan of tricks that involve weapons. But it's not Mr. Wright to show up: it's a short girl with brown hair tied in loops and unmistakable clothes.

"Pearl!" Trucy exclaims, and Athena can feel relief coming out of Apollo in waves as she seemingly forgets all about him and runs to the door.

Pearl gives her usual timid smile when she hugs her, and she has barely enough time to say 'hi' before Trucy gives her a quick peck on the lips. Athena doesn't need Widget to register the peak of happiness, either. And it's not like one would need Apollo's gift to notice the blush spreading on her cheeks.

"Hey, Pearl!" she exclaims, standing from the couch. "It's been a while!"

"It's been _forever_," Trucy proclaims, clinging to Pearl in a way that reminds Athena of a koala.

"It's been just a couple of weeks," Pearl protests, her shy smile melting in a slight frown when she looks around. "Enough for you to stop cleaning up after yourselves, though."

"Hey, don't look at _me_," Apollo mutters, giving the apple a bite now that it's clear Trucy isn't up to practice anymore. "I've cleaned the toilet all the time. Cleaned it good."

"Well, and _I _have watered Charley," Athena says quickly. Pearl is adorable most of the time, but she's someone no one would want to make angry. She grins. "Come to think of it, Mr. Wright and Trucy have been slacking off a lot on the cleaning..."

"Hey!" Trucy protests before turning back to Pearl with her best puppy dog eyes. "That's not true! And besides, how can you be angry at your special someone?"

That causes the frown to melt in a child-like giggle. Athena can't blame her: staying angry at Trucy is hard enough even when she's _not_ your girlfriend. Which reminds her... "Say, when _are_ you going to tell Mr. Wright anyway?" she asks, glancing at Trucy.

"In a bit," she says, grinning at her somewhat mischievously. She seems to be getting a lot of fun out of watching Mr. Wright squirm over her vague mentions of 'seeing someone'. Athena finds it a bit cruel, but Apollo doesn't seem to mind: he rather likes it when someone other than _him_ is the butt of the joke.

The mention of Mr. Wright causes Pearl to suddenly step back, something not too far away from a manic look in her eyes. "That's why I'm here! Mystic Maya will be coming over next week! We need to prepare," she announces.

Athena can hear Apollo start snickering for a moment before he conveniently turns it into a coughing fit. She can't blame him, though – the amount of awkwardness Trucy and Pearl's determination to get Mr. Wright and Maya Fey together has caused in the past couple of years gave them more than a few excuses to have a laugh at Mr. Wright's expenses. While Pearl is adamant in her certainty that Mr. Wright must be Maya's _special someone_, Trucy seems to be determined to make Maya her new mother.

And neither will take a no for an answer.

As Trucy and Pearl scurry to the next room to discuss their next battle plan to throw Mr. Wright and Maya Fey in each other's arms, Apollo chuckles. "I wonder what they'll come up with this time. I hope it will be better thought out than the time they signed them up for a survival course together."

Athena shudders at the memory. "Yeah, same. Almost dying together doesn't seem really romantic to me," she says before smiling a bit. "Glad Maya is coming over, though. It's been a while," she adds. While they don't know each other that much – as the Master of the Kurain Channeling Technique, she doesn't get to visit them very often; it's actually more likely for Mr. Wright and Trucy to go to Kurain on weekends, really, with her and Apollo going along from time to time.

Still, she likes her... and most of all, she's grateful to her. She gave her something she didn't expect she could ever possibly have, something she never even dreamed of – the chance of seeing her mother again, to talk to her, to _hold_ her. She had cried so much her eyes burned for hour afterwords, but she had also smiled and laughed and then cried some more.

And Simon... well, his stoic composure had broken pretty quickly, really. It would have been impossible for it not to, not with all the emotions raging in his heart; Athena had realized soon enough how much Simon had needed that last meeting, that last goodbye. He had needed it even more than _she_ did.

… Which reminds her, she hasn't heard from Simon in a bit; not since their visit to LaRoche's grave the previous week. She knows he's been busy looking into Stan Doff's murder, but nothing more. Maybe she should give him a call, she thinks.

Just to see what he's been up to.

* * *

"... Therefore, with nothing linking Doff's death to his job, I was denied access to any YggdraCorp facility."

Blackquill doesn't truly bother to hide his frustration as he finishes talking: he _is_ frustrated, sure enough, and there is no point in hiding it from the Chief Prosecutor. Who, on the other hand, doesn't really look fazed: he's been just listening in silence, occasionally sipping his tea.

"I suppose this means the investigation is stalled," he says.

Blackquill nods. "Unfortunately, yes. There truly is no other lead to follow, but we don't have any solid proof. There is something _odd_ in the way his body decayed, as Skye's tests have confirmed, but no one can tell precisely what it is and what may have caused his body to rot while he was still alive. As things stand, YggdraCorp is under no obligation to give us any information – much less to let us inside their offices."

"On that you are correct," Edgeworth says, taking his cup of tea away from his lips and back on his desk. "Under normal circumstances and without any clear lead to tell us his job may be in any way involved in his murder, YggdraCorp has every right to keep us out of their facilities."

Blackquill raises an eyebrow, his curiosity piqued. "I take it there is something that could make the circumstances... less than normal?" he asks. He's not surprised when Edgeworth nods.

"Yes. It involves the Interpol." That causes Blackquill to blink, honestly taken aback.

"The Interpol?" he repeats. What does the Interpol have to do with this?

Edgeworth nods. "Yes. I believe I mentioned Agent Lang a few times to you, didn't I?"

He did, and Blackquill remembers it clearly. It was thanks to Agent Lang's intervention that they were allowed to retain custody of LaRoche instead of having to hand him over. In exchange of information, of course, but LaRoche provided it quite readily in exchange for the one thing he wanted – his identity.

If Robert LaRoche could face death as his own person, it's also thanks to Agent Lang.

"Yes," Blackquill says quietly. "I remember."

"I must admit I don't know the details yet," Edgeworth says. "But I know something he was investigating in a country called Reijam leads to Stan Doff. I'm certain Agent Lang will be glad to give your further information as soon as he's here. Which, truth to be told, was supposed to be several minutes ag-"

A knock at the door cuts him off, causing him to chuckle. "I should have imagined this would happen," he mutters before calling out. "Do come in."

The door opens, and Blackquill recognizes the man who steps in right away. They never met in person, but he's seen his picture in a couple of reports from the Interpol. Of course, he wasn't wearing those curious sunglasses in any of them. "Agent Lang," the Chief Prosecutor greets him. "It's been some time."

"Mr. Prosecutor," Lang says, bringing his hands together and briefly bowing his head in Edgeworth's direction before he walks up to the desk and comes to stand next to Blackquill. "Looks like fate brought us back together. A shame you'd rather sit behind a desk rather than joining the hunt this time around," he adds.

Chief Prosecutor Edgeworth chuckles. "I have other duties to perform, I'm afraid, but it matters not. I'm certain Prosecutor Blackquill will be up to the challenge. He's currently investigating Stan Doff's death."

That causes Agent Lang to turn his attention to Blackquill for the first time since the moment he stepped in. He stares at him with a frown for a few moments, then his frown melts and turns into a smirk. "So we finally meet; I've heard much of you," he says, and bows his head slightly. "A man willing to put his life on the line to protect his mentor's pup is one deserving of respect. I'm certain we'll get along, you and I."

Blackquill finds himself returning the smirk. He doesn't instinctively like many people, but Agent Lang seems to be one of the exceptions. "I'm sure we will. May I ask what has brought the Interpol on this case?"

Lang's smirk melts into a serious expression. "It's a long story. Mind if we put that nice couch you've got to use, Mr. Prosecutor?" he asks, turning to glance at Edgeworth. "I've been up and running for a while now. Lang Zi says: keep your limbs strong and ready to leap for the kill."

Edgeworth gives him an amused look. "I'd have offered you a seat even without Lang Zi's endorsement, Agent Lang. Do make yourself comfortable and explain us the details."

And explain he does. Blackquill listens in silence as Lang speaks of a long investigation to uncover and bring to an end the wide-spread use of humans as guinea pigs to test dangerous substances in several countries.

"We believe all these tests are aimed to test something dangerous. By all means not a _medicine_," Lang says. "We knew the experiments happened, but we couldn't figure out who was truly behind it all. We found our first solid lead in the Republic of Reijam; a local politician was likely to be involved. But before we could get to him, he died... oddly."

"Define 'oddly'," Blackquill says, but he's starting to guess what it may be about.

"There was no wound on him. None at all. It could have looked all the world like heart failure, hadn't his body been as rotten as his soul. But he had been seen alive only a short time earlier; not enough time had passed to explain his body's state of decay. Does it sound familiar, Prosecutor Blackquill?"

It does, of course. It sounds very, very familiar. "Stan Doff's body presented the same problem," he says. "Someone in our precinct's forensic squad has brought up the possibility his body may have started to rot while he was still alive. But how would you know that? This is a local crime. How did the Interpol find a connection so quickly?"

Lang gives a barking laugh. "Sharp as a fang, this one," he says approvingly. "The short answer is, we didn't. We found something _else_ that connected this case to ours; finding out how Mr. Doff died only made the connection more obvious to us."

Now that's interesting, and good to know. The more they find to connect Stan Doff to the Interpol's case, the more chances there are that YggdraCorp will have to yield and allow them to take their investigation to their offices. "What did you find?"

Lang scowls. "We found a facility," he says. "One of those where humans were experimented on. We _knew_ that was what happened in there. But by the time we got there, there was no one left in. No one, and nothing. They left the place taking everything they could move with them."

"Do you think they were warned of your arrival beforehand?"

Lang seems to hesitate for a moment. "Perhaps," he says, then turns back to Edgeworth. "She was _there_ before us. We found traces of her DNA in there. Hell knows what she may have been up to."

That causes Blackquill to blink in confusion. Wasn't this about Stan Doff? "Her?" he repeats, gaze moving from Lang to Edgeworth and then back to Lang. "Who's _her_?"

Agent Lang turns back to him with a bitter scowl. "A snake in a woman's body, that's what she is," he mutters. "She used to be my second in command, once. My trusted right hand. My trust was horribly misplaced, however; she was a mole sent to infiltrate the Interpol. Failing to realize that is still my greatest failure. She escaped the clutches of justice years ago; I won't rest until I catch her again," Lang says, and gives a faint smirk. "I suppose it's useless to tell you, of all people, how little her betrayal was appreciated."

Blackquill nods at him. He can understand, and how. He knows more then he'd like of broken trust and betrayal. He knows how deep it can cut: it cut _him_ to the bone, after all.

"No, you don't," he finds himself saying. "I fully understand. I'll give all the help I can so that she can be apprehended. But I need to know – how does Stan Doff figure in all this?"

The scowl on Agent Lang's face fades slightly, but not entirely. "We found a finger print," he says. "They didn't wipe every surface accurately enough, and a few prints stayed. Most of them couldn't be identified, but one was – and it belongs to Stan Doff. The print places him in a facility where, we strongly suspect, human beings were experimented on against their will. Not only that, but his death bears striking similarities to that of a man we _know_ was involved. There was more than enough to link the two cases."

"And you believe YggdraCorp may be involved," Blackquill says. It's easy to see why: they're dealing with experiments on human beings, and a man involved worked for nanobiology company that's already proved itself less than willing to cooperate with the law enforcement.

Lang gives a somewhat feral smile. "You bet we do. Now, Mr. Prosecutor here told me you were having trouble investigating YggdraCorp's LA offices," he says, smile widening. "I can put a remedy to that."

Well, isn't that good news. "That would be most appreciated," Blackquill says. "I have to warn you, though – they'll try to cling to even the smallest rule in fine print to keep you out. Are you certain the Interpol's authority will be enough to make them yield?"

The other man throws back his head and laughs. "Oh, it will be. If it was enough to make a country's ruler strip their war hero of his ambassadorship, you can _bet_ it will be enough to make YggdraCorp open its doors," he says, and smirks again. Blackquill notices for the first time how similar to fangs his teeth are. "Just leave it to me."

* * *

Outis doesn't mind long flights at all.

He finds them relaxing, actually. While his way of life requires him to be connected and all too aware of what's going on around him – you don't last for long if you're not, after all – long flights are a much appreciated break. A World War could break out beneath him and he wouldn't know at all until landing, so there is no point in worrying about anything at all. It's like putting reality on hold for a time.

Not bad.

Outis sits back with a satisfied sigh and, after giving a polite nod at the woman sitting next to him and a warm smile to the child on her lap, he turns to glance at the clouds outside to proceed forgetting all about the situation at hand. At least for a time, until the plan lands in Los Angeles and reality calls him back to work, he can allow himself the luxury and indulge into fond memories.

He supposes most people wouldn't precisely call them _fond_ memories, but then again he's not most people.

* * *

**Undisclosed training ground, 2011**

The man – who goes by Umber, for now; he's had many names and he'll have more in the future, no doubt, but this one works right now – quite likes watching the newest recruits fight.

Hand to hand combat is one of the first things they teach, and a good basis to determine who is going to make good spy material and who's doomed to fail. While it's not the most important skill for a spy, being capable in combat – any kind, from hand-to-hand to weapons – is still something they value... and good to evaluate the subject's attitude. Quick-thinking and versatility are both very important for a spy, after all, and a fight was the best way to see whether or not a _candidate_ had either.

The ones who're fighting now are evenly matched for now, both of them fast and fairly capable for people who had little to no training until a short time ago; for a while it seems like a dance, as they come together and move apart, weaving and circling each other, looking for a weak spot and trying to exploit it before spinning away to circle again.

This won't do in a mission, of course. Spies are not supposed to get into long fights: when taking down someone is necessary they're supposed to do so as quickly as possible, even without weapons. But there is time to teach them how to do that: for now, what he really wants to see is what potential they have.

Although, he has to admit, there is one in particular he's interested in. Umber leans a little on the balcony he's standing on and looks a little further down the yard, where what are referred to as 'the new ones' are standing in two separate lines, watching the fight as well.

Johan – not his name, but he can't remember his own and it's the one he was using when he was taken in, so it will do for now – is standing right at the front of one of the lines. He'll be next, but he shows no nervousness. Actually, he shows nothing. As usual.

He seems to unnerve his fellow trainees, but that's no surprise: he unnerved some people on higher positions than Umber's, actually.

"You were supposed to kill him, if anything," one of his superiors had told him after calling him to his office, Johan's evaluation papers in his hands. "Not to recruit him."

Umber had laughed. "I couldn't resist, I'm afraid. He's an interesting case. I think he has plenty of potential."

"Plenty of potential to backfire on us," his superior had grunted. "We know nothing about him. Nothing."

"Neither does he, for the matter. Isn't that interesting?"

"And dangerous."

"For whoever we set him against, yes. He was a killer for hire; he won't shy away from murder when it's needed. He was skilled enough to go unnoticed for quite some time. A master of disguise, and he did it all on his own. If properly trained, he'll become the perfect spy."

"That's what you say."

"Have I ever been wrong on a recruit so far?"

There was a moment of silence, then the other man had sighed. "There is always a first time. Have you _seen_ his psychological evaluation? It's basically one damn huge question mark. No past. No emotions. _Nothing_. The closest they got to define him was, and I quote, 'a textbook sociopath'; and even _that_ isn't quite correct."

"I could tell as much without psychological evaluations," Umber had said dismissively.

"_Why_ did you pick him?"

A shrug. "You could say he piqued my interest. He's unlike anyone else I've met. Wouldn't you agree?"

His superior had sighed again, putting down the paper and leaning back on his seat. "You're supposed to choose potential spies, not to pick up monstersfor your amusement_._"

"This will be _our_ monster," Umber had said, although he meant that only partially. He had found him... and, if the suspect that had slithered its way in his mind turned out to be true, he may as well have _made_ him. As far as he was concerned, this was _his_ monster.

"Monsters aren't as easily controlled as we'd like."

"I will be easier than you may think. He's a creature of logic; that makes him more predictable once you understand his mindset."

"That's the point. We _don't_ understand it."

Umber had grinned. "I believe I do. You say he's empty, and that's true. He's a hollow shell, cold logic in a human hide. Each and every other recruit – each and every of _us_, even – has a past and a name they learn to conceal and emotions they learn to control. But this one... this one has none of it. The others must be taught to reshape themselves when needed; he is emptiness ready to be filled with something. And that something can be _anything_ we wish. Let me train him," he had added, causing his superior to blink.

"Train him? You? But you don't usually-"

"I'd like to make an exception, sir. Once his basic training is done with, let me supervise the rest. I'll make the perfect weapon out of him. He'll be a masterpiece."

_My masterpiece_.

His superior had stared at him for a few moments before letting out another sigh. "Very well. If he's found fit to pass on to further training, he'll be yours to deal with. Just make sure this... toy of yours doesn't turn around to bite your hand. Is that clear?"

Umber had smiled. "Crystal."

"ENOUGH!"

The shot coming from the yard snaps him from his reminiscing. Umber looks down to see that the fight is over at last, one of the opponents on the ground and holding his bleeding nose. He doesn't stay on the ground for long, though: he stands and, with a grimace of pain, goes to stand on the back of the row along with the winner. A gesture of the woman who's supervising them, and two more step forward: a tall young man with dark hair... and Johan.

He and his opponent seem to be rather fairly matched when it comes to size, the other man only slightly taller than him. That's intentional: this is meant to see how they take on someone whose strength roughly matches theirs, after all.

Umber leans a little forward, staring at Johan intently. He's showing nothing at all, as always, and Umber can tell it's because he's _feeling_ nothing at all: nothing there but the cold logic Umber finds so fascinating. He doesn't even move when the other starts circling him, nor he bothers to take a defensive stance of any kind.

He stands there, arms relaxed down his sides and no expression, _waiting_.

And then his opponent charges, kicking up dirt and dust, arm pulled back to deliver a powerful right hook – or at least what would be one if his fist hit its intended target. It doesn't, because just one instant before the impact Johan dodges, snake-quick and not having even bothered to bring up his hands for defense; had he been just a fraction slower, the punch would have smashed in his unprotected face.

He was too confident to even doubt for a moment that he would be able to dodge the blow, Umber realizes, and smirks to himself. Confident, and fearless. He doesn't feel fear. He feels _nothing_.

_Our monster._

His opponent must have expected him to dodge, and he's remarkably quick to turn and try to reach for his neck, using the failed blow's momentum to try catching Johan in a choke-hold without making himself vulnerable to a counter-attack. But that attempt fails, too: he's fast, but Johan is _faster_. He dodges the second strike as well... and then the next, and the one after that.

Soon enough, it's clear that Johan has no intention to try striking back just yet. He keeps dodging each and every attempt at hitting him, barely breaking a sweat; his opponent may as well be trying to hit mist. It's not blind luck, Umber can tell as much: Johan can read his opponent just as well a Umber can. A tilt of the head, a subtle glance, a shift of weight – all telltale signs of what the next move is going to be. They may be invisible to most... but not to him, and not to Johan. Not to cold, calculating Johan; not to someone whose mind isn't touched by the heat of the fight.

Why, he likes the young man more and more by the minute.

It goes on for a little longer, any attempt at hitting Johan failing one after the other as he almost dances right out of reach. If his opponent is growing frustrated, he's good at hiding it; he's good, Umber has to admit, but will need more training to make him stop giving his moves away so clearly before he even strikes.

But he isn't devoid of cunning, and his next move makes it clear: the man steps back with his right foot, his left fist pulling down low for an uppercut aimed up under Johan's jaw. An easy enough blow for Johan to sidestep... except that it is a trap: it doesn't escape Umber's trained eye how his _other_ arm pulls back slightly, fist tightening. He instantly knows that if Johan steps on his right he'll be blindsided by a vicious right hook on the side of the head.

Except that he doesn't: instead of stepping aside he drops in a crouch just as his opponent's right fist moves. The punch goes well over Johan's head; the momentum drags his opponent in a half-turn, balance broken, his right arm still outstretched – and that's when Johan finally _strikes_, quick as a snake. He springs back up and, in the blink of an eye, his right hand has grabbed his opponent's wrist just as his _other_ arm shoots up to hit the outstretched arm from below – right on the elbow.

The resulting cracking noise is perfectly audible even from the balcony Umber is standing on, and is immediately followed by a howl of pain. As his opponent collapses, holding his right arm and crying out, Johan simply steps back and stares down at him in silence, no expression at all on his face.

Perfect, Umber thinks as he quickly walks down the stairs to reach the training grounds – where the man's cries are now covered by the instructor's yells on how he wasn't supposed to break anyone's arm during this training. A bit too much whining for Umber's tastes: an arm can heal, and at the moment he's too pleased by what he has seen to give it any thought.

Not a single hit taken, no hesitation: one strike, one broken elbow and a finished fight.

It's _perfect_.

"I was told we were to incapacitate our opponent. You said nothing on how we should achieve that," Johan is saying flatly as Umber walks up to them, not unfazed by the cries, the angry yells or the looks he's getting.

"He has a point there," Umber speaks up before the instructor can, reaching out to put a hand on Johan's shoulder. "If they didn't receive clear instructions, that is your failure. But what's done is done, don't you think?" he adds with a friendly smile. "Get the poor guy at the infirmary and carry on with the training. I'll take him with me for a while. Hope you don't mind," Umber says.

He doesn't wait for a reply, nor he bothers to pay any of them more attention: he simply starts walking away, gesturing for Johan to follow. And he does follow him, sure enough. For a few minutes they only keep walking and say nothing.

"You did well," Umber finally speaks up when they're far enough from anyone's ears. He turns to look straight at the younger man, who looks right back at him with no expression: he acknowledges the praise with a nod, and that's it. "Where did you learn?"

"Nowhere in particular. I learned."

"It must have been useful when you killed people for money."

"Not very often. I avoided fights. I'd usually try to get the deed done before they realized I was even there."

"The mercy of a quick death?"

"Less of a hassle for me."

Umber chuckles. "I should have known," he says. There is no place for a concept like _mercy_ in this one's mind. His gaze falls once again on the bullet scar on his forehead. "You told me you don't remember being shot," he finally says. "That the very first memory you have is of is waking up in a hospital."

"Yes."

"Where?"

"I already gave you that information."

"Not to me directly. Do so now, if you'll be so kind," Umber says pleasantly. He knows what the answer is, but he wants to hear it from him – directly. He remembers being told that Johan had some trouble answering the question when asked and needed to think it over for a while... as though he had nearly forgotten.

Johan nods, and speaks after what seems a moment's hesitation. "It was in Burgundine. Borginia's capital."

"I see. Approximately ten years ago, you said. You were about fifteen at the time, were you not?"

"So it was estimated."

Umber nods and reaches to grasp Johan's chin. "Let me take a good look at you, will you?" he says, tilting his head up, towards the sun. His grip is strong enough to hurt, but Johan doesn't give any sign of being bothered: he simply narrows his eyes against the sun's glare and keeps still as the man's eyes carefully scan his face and then stop – yet again – on the bullet scar on his forehead.

His gaze stays there for a few moment before moving back down to the rest of the face. It's a rather generic face, to be sure... but then there are the eyes, a pale blue that's like dirty ice. They convey nothing now, no emotion, but it wasn't _always_ like this. Oh no.

A voice, that of a long dead man who didn't last very long in the business, rings out somewhere in the back of Umber's mind.

_Who the hell is he?_

_No one, _he had said back then.

_A monster, _he thinks now. No name, no past, no emotions – all of it stripped from him with the pull of a trigger and the blast of a gun. One moment and whoever he had been was gone, leaving _this_ behind.

_His monster_.

Umber was never one to believe in much of anything, let alone in fate, but he has to admit that he's almost tempted to believe in it now. Perhaps it's only fitting that he lived so that their paths would cross again, so that _he_ would be the one to fill that void with something.

He gives a shark-like smile and lets go of the younger man's chin. "You have so much more potential than you ever realize," he says, the smile not leaving his lips. "We'll get on well, you and I. I'll supervise your training personally soon enough. Try not to kill any of the other recruits until then."

Johan stares back at him blankly, nothing indicating that he realizes that was a joke; no amusement at all shows. "I have no reason to," is all his says, his voice blank. It barely sounds human.

Umber quite likes the sound of it.

* * *

"So we went from impersonating a married couple to impersonating a pair of co-workers who _also_ happened to be lovers. I've got to wonder if the bigwigs are trying to tell us something."

The Phantom snorts, brow furrowed in concentration as he keeps working on his watch with the tiniest screwdriver he could get his hands on. When she asked what the problem was, he only muttered something on how his old one was better and wouldn't break so often. "It was convenient, that is all," he says. "We'll take two different positions that will allow us access to key information, and we won't have to worry about any _lover_ realizing we're not them. Don't go looking for hidden meanings where there is none."

She laughs. "Man, you're a story and a half. You wouldn't recognize a joke if it tackled you."

He hums, but he doesn't take his gaze away from his work. He's been even less talkative than usual later, but then again they've both been busy learning all they could about the people whose place they'll have to take. The Phantom's next persona, one Harrison Fire, is the chief of staff of YggdraCorp. Very convenient for them, since he'll be in the right position to access to plenty of information... but it also means that the amount of things he must learn to know all about in a short time is staggering.

There is no doubt in the Yatagarasu's mind that he can do it – she's been working with him for two years now and she knows exactly what he's capable of – but it's no wonder that it took him quite some work.

Her role should be easier: Mary Goround is a lab technician, and unlikely to be closely observed by those who matter... but those most pay no attention to are often the one who can better access to vital information.

The Yatagarasu gives a quick glance at her notes, but she puts them down almost right away. She doesn't think there's anything she's missing, but if there is... well, there is one way to find out quickly. She leans back against the couch. "So. Favorite food?" she asks aloud.

The Phantom doesn't look up at her, but he replies without missing a beat. He's gotten used to those sudden questions about the person whose identity he's about to take, and he always counters with more questions.

"Grilled T-Bone beef steak. Medium rare, potatoes on the side. Eggs sunny-side up and bacon for breakfast," he says flatly. "Favorite movie?" he counters.

"The Butterfly Effect. You graduated from...?"

"Ivy University, 2011. Favorite drink?"

She grins. "Vodka martini. Shaken, not stirred."

"Incorrect."

"Aw, c'mon. Give me points for the reference."

"No. Favorite drink?" he repeats dully, not taking his eyes off the watch. She sighs.

"Strawberry Caipiroska. Dr Pepper when no alcohol is available. Have I already told you you're no fun?"

"Is that your next question?"

She blinks at him. "... Was that an attempt at joking?"

The Phantom doesn't lift his eyes from the watch. Picks up another tool. ".. No."

She laughs and pats his shoulder, causing the tool he was holding to fall from his hand, and ignores his glare. "You're actually growing a sense of humor! Or is that _LaRoche's_ sense of humor coming back?"

"Your imagination is far too active for your own good. Either use it to ask more questions or quit wasting my time," he says coldly, finally putting down the second tool and picking up the watch again.

She sighs again. She knows there _is_ a sense of humor somewhere in there – LaRoche had some, even if it was mostly sarcasm – but the Phantom seems determined to pretend it's not there at all. "Health issues?"

"None of much importance. Allergic to fur," he says. "Speaking of which – pets?"

"The Yatagarasu absentmindedly glances out of the window. "A ferret named Dumpster and a couple of canaries. Kept well out of the ferret's reach, of course. Bet that if your ex had a ferret he'd have to keep _it_ safe from that hawk of his, huh?"

There are a few moments of complete silence as the Phantom simply stares at her. His expression is absolutely flat, but his eyes flicker for a moment before he speaks again. "I can't see how any of it is relevant," he says, and she can tell he's _willing_ his voice to stay perfectly controlled; bringing up Blackquill never fails to get that reaction.

She grins. "Come to think of it, you never say anything over me calling him your ex."

"Because the mere notion is too asinine to deserve an answer. You don't see _me_ assuming there was anything going on with Prosecutor Faraday."

_Faraday_.

She hasn't thought of Byrne Faraday in years, and the thought of him catches her unprepared – and it _stings_, it really does. And the Phantom noticed, she can tell as much, because he's looking straight at her and his blank gaze has changed into a more intent one.

"Pfft, hahahaha! Look at you, so serious all of a sudden," she laughs, but he just blinks at her, and she can tell he can see right through the act; she let her guard down, and he didn't miss it.

Suddenly, this isn't funny anymore.

"I killed him, in case you missed it," she says, her voice suddenly colder. She wants him to stop staring at her; it's unnerving, if anything because nothing in his expression is giving her any indication of what he may be thinking. "Stabbed him through the heart."

"Which is why I never implied anything," the Phantom says, his voice flat. "You had your orders, after all. You followed them. It's not like you had a choice in the matter."

A smile curls her lips, but this time it's a bitter one. "Yes. No choice," she murmurs.

"_This has to end. The Yatagarasu has to end. Faraday is the real threat; it is him you have to get out of the way. Afterward, you'll return here. We'll give you a new identity and place you somewhere else." _

"_This isn't necessary. I'm certain I can retrieve the key and make both Faraday and Badd direct their suspects elsewhere. There is no reason why we cannot-"_

"_I'm afraid that it's up to me, and me alone, to decide which steps are necessary and which are not. And, things being as they are, my order is to end Mann before he can testify, retrieve the key, kill Faraday and make your 'Calisto Yew' persona disappear. These are my orders. So, before I give you further instruction, do tell me – are you going to obey, or are you not?"_

"_... Yes. I am."_

A long silence follows. The Phantom doesn't say a word – but he doesn't look away, either, and she finds herself speaking again almost without realizing it. "That old fool. Faraday didn't need to die. I tried to tell Alba as much, but he wouldn't listen. I could have kept the Yatagarasu going on for _years_."

"... You would have wanted that, wouldn't you?"

Another bitter smirk. "Would you have wanted to keep working with Blackquill with Fulbright's mask?"

The Phantom looks back down at the dissembled watch. "You know the answer to that."

There is another brief silence before she speaks again. "I liked it where I was," she says slowly. "Faraday and Badd... what a pair of utter fools they were. But they trusted me. They weren't half bad, really. We... had a nice time. I had a good time in the Interpol, too. Agent Lang – that idiot – trusted me just as much as Faraday and Badd did. Hah. Good thing I didn't have to kill him too, huh?" she adds, but this time she doesn't even bother to force on a smile. The Phantom is not even looking at her anyway. "... It was exciting, too. Sometimes, if I tried hard enough, I could pretend it was real. I'm sure you could, too."

The Phantom's jaw clenches for a moment. "And it nearly cost me my life. It wasn't real, and it could never be. I was the lie. _You_ were the lie. We can't allow ourselves to forget that."

"Pffft...!"

The laughter that comes unbidden to her lips feel good, real good. It's almost liberating, and she can even believe that what's prickling her eyes are tears of mirth. "Hahaha! Oh man. You're hilarious, you know," she says, and laughs again, slapping a hand on his shoulder. "I like you. I sure hope I won't have to kill you someday!"

The Phantom looks up at her, then his lips curl as well in the shadow of a smile. "You should hope so, yes. I'm rather hard to kill."

"Oh, I know. You probably cost a sniper his job. And an assassin didn't get his fee, from what I heard. Don't even get me started on the guy who got killed because he failed to kill you with poison!"

"... Shall I write them a formal apology?"

The Yatagarasu laughs again, and this time it's out of genuine amusement. The Phantom doesn't laugh – she managed to make him laugh along with her only once, and even then it was a very bitter laugh – but he doesn't make remarks, either, and she knows that's about as good as it gets.


	5. YggdraCorp

_A/N: so I got some free time and actually managed to write a chapter in a week. Wow. It's been so long since last time I was able to do that_. XD

* * *

"... I must have hurt you."

Blackquill's voice is barely above a murmur, but it's enough to snap LaRoche out of his comfortable, trance-like state. He forces himself to open his eyes, but doesn't lift his head from Blackquill's chest.

"It matters not," he says, gaze fixed against the wall of his cell. There was pain, no point in denying it, but it truly doesn't matter: he's no stranger to pain, and they certainly couldn't call for a guard and tell them to fetch some lubricant. Pain was a more than acceptable price for what he could have tonight.

Tonight, and never again. Because come morning, Robert LaRoche will have to die once again – and the ghost that will be left will never again cross paths with Simon Blackquill.

The thought is like a spear of ice through his chest. He can feel Blackquill's own chest rising beneath his head as he draws in a long breath, as though he's about to speak, but LaRoche doesn't want to listen to anything he may say, doesn't want to listen to anything but Blackquill's heartbeat and breathing. He lifts his head and presses his mouth against Blackquill's throat, speaking first.

"It matters not," he repeats against his skin. "I'm about to die. This was the only... this once. Only _this once_."

_You did nothing I didn't wish you to_.

Blackquill stays still for a moment, then he exhales and reaches to hold him back, pressing LaRoche's head back down on his shoulder. LaRoche shuts his eyes when Blackquill's fingers tangle in his hair, the coldness in his chest a stark contrast to the warmth of skin on skin. The thought of losing that warmth is unbearable, but there is nothing he can do to keep it from happening. LaRoche will die, and Blackquill will move on. That's how it must go, he tells himself. That's how he _wants_ it to go.

But that's not true; that's simply the only option he has aside from death. The thought of leaving Blackquill and his _identity_ behind for good pains him beyond words. He doesn't want to, doesn't want to _go_.

_What I want has ceased to matter a long time ago_.

"... Blackquill," he calls out, and feels the embrace tightening just a fraction before Blackquill speaks.

"What is it?" is all he asks, his voice very quiet.

For a moment LaRoche almost bites back the plea that desperately wants to leave him. He knows that's not what he should ask for, that the whole _point_ of facing execution and letting Robert LaRoche die is to allow Blackquill to move on – to give him back the life he stole from him seven years ago.

_Don't turn back_, he should tell him... but he can't find it in himself to.

"Don't forget me," LaRoche finally manages, and he doesn't even care that his voice is trembling and that tears are leaking from beneath his closed eyelids on Blackquill's skin. He could shut out those emotions, but he doesn't want to. Robert LaRoche is a human being, not a phantom; Robert LaRoche is about to die and he's allowed to be scared, he's allowed to be _weak_. "Please, _please_, don't forget me."

Blackquill pulls his hand away from LaRoche's hair and sits up, keeping LaRoche close with one arm – but his other hand reaches to grasp his chin and tilt up his face. LaRoche opens his eyes to find himself staring straight at Blackquill. It's hard to see his expression in the dimly lit cell, but he can tell that Blackquill is looking at him intently, perhaps memorizing features that, LaRoche knows, will soon be erased.

The thought makes him feel even colder. His breath hitches, and he feels tear rolling down his cheeks. If Blackquill sees them he doesn't say: he only presses his mouth on LaRoche's, hard.

"Never," he says against his lips, his own voice so filled with raw emotion that it's almost painful to listen. But it feels good, if horribly bitter, to hear that – because it's a promise, and one thing LaRoche knows for sure is that Simon Blackquill never breaks his word.

LaRoche presses closer to him and wills himself to forget reality for just a while longer.

* * *

"_Never."_

Blackquill's voice sounds oddly loud in his empty bedroom, and so does the bitter laugh that follows. "Never," he repeats, sitting up on the bed. He reaches up to run a hand over his face; his skin feels cold and damp with sweat. "I'll never forget. May you be damned, how _could_ I? You haunt my dreams still."

It's not always like this; he can go on weeks without a single thought of LaRoche. But sometimes a memory strikes, sudden and unexpected, and it hurts every single time.

Perhaps it was the meeting with Lang that caused this: the little Lang said about this spy who infiltrated the Interpol long ago – Shih-na was her last known alias, apparently – was enough for him to know that, to Lang, this woman is what the Phantom has been to him. It was plain he wanted nothing more than catching the one who betrayed him so utterly, and Blackquill can understands that better than anyone. The sense of kinship was only strengthened when Chief Prosecutor Edgeworth told him something more about Lang's target.

"She infiltrated this very courthouse, almost nineteen years ago. She worked for an international smuggling ring at the time," Edgeworth had told him. "She posed as a defense attorney, and murdered a fellow prosecutor she worked with. It's a long story," he had added when he had noticed Blackquill's confusion over a defense attorney working _with_ a prosecutor. "The point is, Prosecutor Faraday was a threat to the smuggling ring she worked for. He trusted her, and she paid back that trust with a knife through the heart. I was but a rookie at the time, but I was able to prove her guilt. However, she escaped. When we met again seven years later, she was posing as someone else – and she was Agent Lang's trusted assistant."

Yes, Blackquill thinks now, that must be it: the parallels he's picked up between the spy Lang seeks and the Phantom must be what caused LaRoche to enter his dreams again.

Blackquill throws the covers aside and stands, walking out of the room and into the bathroom. He doesn't bother to turn on the light: he's come to know his new apartment like he knew his cell in these past two years, and he _does_ have a tendency to awaken at night. In such moments, sudden light hurts his eyes.

Blackquill splashes some cold water on his face before closing the tap and looking at the mirror in the faint light coming from the window. He doesn't look quite like he did before his long imprisonment, but some of the marks prison left on him have faded: his is skin less pale, the marks under his eyes almost entirely gone. His hair is short as it was _before_, too: he rid himself of the unruly mane he had grown in prison shortly after LaRoche's execution. But the white hair is still there, as are the marks on his wrists, unlikely to ever fade out.

Blackquill reaches to touch his right wrist, his mouth a grim line. He remembers clearly how Fulbright – the man he believed to be Fulbright – would always be the one to take them off and then put them back on in the one year they worked together. He left that duty to no one else, and Blackquill sometimes wonders if that was a trait Fulbright had – getting so invested in those he was responsible for to the point of becoming downright possessive – or if something of the Phantom leaked through the mask.

But it doesn't matter, Blackquill tells himself, and pulls his hand away from his wrist; he never asked, and he certainly cannot ask now that he's gone. Still, it's almost ironic to think of it, of how he returned the favor by being the one to close the cuffs around LaRoche's wrists for the last time before he was led to the gallows.

_This is the last time you'll have to wear these._

_Heh. Somehow, I fail to find that comforting._

_I know,_ he had said, and he had reached down to grab LaRoche's hands. They were cold, he remembers, as though death had claimed him already. _One moment and it will be over. Don't be afraid._

But he _was_ afraid: anyone could see that, let alone Blackquill. Still, LaRoche had said it didn't matter.

_It's... it means I'm human, doesn't it?_

_Yes. It means you're human._

_Thank you. For... for giving me a name, for making me someone. Thank you for for not giving up on me._

"... Fool," Blackquill mutters to the empty room, his eyes shut. "Did knowing your name make any difference for you once you crossed the Styx?"

He wouldn't have wondered as much, once: he would have thought of death as something final that would make one's name and identity useless. But he's long since changed his mind on that. It would be hard not to after witnessing what he witnessed, after meeting Metis Cykes once again seven years after her death.

Maya Fey had volunteered to channel LaRoche as well to let them talk one last time, actually, like she did for Justice and his friend, but Blackquill had declined the offer. Robert LaRoche was gone, and unlike Metis Cykes and Clay Terran he hadn't been unexpectedly murdered: they had known his execution was coming, and they could tell each other all they needed to tell, all that _mattered_ enough to tell. It had been enough.

LaRoche is gone, and so is the phantom he has chased for seven long years; he's at peace, or so Blackquill hopes, and he needs to let go of him. He has managed, for the most part; he can only hope that, in time, LaRoche's phantom will cease plaguing his dreams.

* * *

"Look, Phantom of the Courthouse, I don't mean to be tiresome, but-"

"You _are_ being tiresome."

"This could become a problem. You _know_ that." The sudden sharp edge in her voice is what causes the Phantom to pause, his hand stilling an inch away from the glass of water. It's only a moment's hesitation, though: the next moment he simply pops the pill in his mouth and swallows it with a mouthful of water.

"I can't see how it could be of hindrance. It's simply one pill each evening. No one will see me taking it."

The Yatagarasu rolls her eyes, leaning back against the kitchen's door. She's wearing a ridiculous pajamas with miniature scales printed all over it, which is a sharp contrast to her unusually serious tone. "Don't play dumb. It's not _one_ pill anymore. You doubled the dose, and it's still not enough. You had two already, and one more now. I heard you getting up; you could have bothered to put on some pants instead of just walking around in your underwear, by the way. Didn't you say memories never come back twice the same night?"

The Phantom doesn't try to argue that point. Dream suppressants seem to be failing lately; he dreamed, sure enough, but this time it wasn't a memory of his childhood to come back – it was a much more recent one.

_Don't forget me._

_Never_.

"I still fail to see the issue," he finally says. "No one will need to see me take the pills. Even if they do, I can pass it off as any kind of medication. Harrison Fire is not immune to migraines, after all."

She shakes her head. "That drug isn't even officially _approved_. It's still experimental. There is no data at all about possible side effects; let alone long term ones."

"While your concern for my health is _moving_, I have to inform you it's none of your business."

"Pffft... Hahahaha! Oh man," she laughs, bringing a hand up to her mouth. "You... Hahah! You're so _dense_! You really don't get this teamwork thing, do you?" she says, and snickers some more before turning reasonably serious again. "As long as we work together, it _is_ my concern. If you're compromised-"

"I won't be," the Phantom cuts her off, putting the glass back down. "If I get, for the sake of argument, _compromised_, you already have your orders. Don't you?"

She stares at him for a moment before nodding. "Of course. And so do you."

"Obviously," is the flat reply. The orders are simple: if either of them is compromised and at risk of being caught, the other's orders are very simple – _kill_. "If I'm compromised, if I become a problem, kill me. It's nothing you haven't done before," he adds. It's a calculated blow, especially since they spoke of Byrne Faraday mere hours earlier, and her jaw clenches for a moment before she laughs.

"Hahaha! Like you'd let me! Or maybe you would?" she adds, tilting her head on one side with a smirk. "What would you pick – death, or facing Blackquill again once your disappearing trick has been revealed?"

Something in the Phantom's chest clenches, but he refuses to let it show. Part of him expected a similar remark the very moment he delivered his; the Yatagarasu isn't one to take a low blow without returning it. "But it's nothing you should concern yourself about, because I _won't_ be compromised," he says. "You can quit worrying and focus on the role you'll take on from tomorrow morning," he adds.

From here on, their instructions are simple enough: they're to don their masks and show at YggdraCorp as Harrison Fire and Mary Goround respectively, ready to take on their jobs right away. Both of them have been taken into custody over the weekend, and both of them have been questioned. They have spoken, of course – they were made to speak, though the Phantom doesn't quite care to know by what means – and it has become clear that yes, YggdraCorp is involved with unethical human experiments in several countries.

Neither of them knew the details or the purpose; information between departments was strictly controlled even within YggdraCorp itself. But then again, that's why they're going to take their places: to find out _more_.

The Yatagarasu grins. "What, afraid I'll mess up? I'm hurt. And here I believed I thought higher of me."

"I probably would if that laughter of yours didn't nearly blow our cover in Zheng Fa last year."

Predictably, she laughs at the remark. "Haha! Still sulking over that? Nothing happened. You should give me more credit: I lasted years in the Interpol, and no one knew. Lang trusted me blindly, while I'm pretty sure Blackquill never let _Fulbright_ even see your psych profile in the year you posed as him," she adds, and smirks when the Phantom's frame stiffens.

_B-B-But I thought you believed me…?!_

_Silence! Ha ha ha ha ha! Oh, how you amuse me so!_

_Simon was only pretending to believe Detective Fulbright… he knew I'd notice if there was a lack of emotions, like joy or relief, in his response._

"... Lang must have been quite the trusting fool," is all the Phantom mutters before walking past her and out of the kitchen. She doesn't say anything, nor she tries to follow him, and it's a relief.

He longs for darkness and silence and dreamless sleep before he takes over someone else's life once again.

* * *

"This is quite the canary you've got."

Blackquill's lips curl in a faint smirk almost against his own will. Normally, he wouldn't allow anyone to call Taka a canary without being cut down, or getting to taste his hawk's talons. But, he has to admit, it isn't truly bothered by Lang's use of the word – especially since Taka doesn't seem to mind, either, and lets Lang scratch the back of his head. That's quite a sight: Taka's trust is even harder to gain then Blackquill's own, and he can't think of anyone who's allowed to pet him aside from himself and sometimes Athena.

_Fulbright could_.

The thought is like a sudden, cold shower. That much is true: for quite a while the only other person who could touch Taka aside from himself was Fulbright. It wasn't _Fulbright_, of course, it never was, but Fulbright was the one Taka had come to know – to the point he wouldn't even recognize the man who once fed him once the mask was down. LaRoche told him as much, in this very office.

_I was told he still shows at the clink from time to time. They told me he come to rest on your cell's window._

_Yes, it happens from time to time. I assume he still thinks you'll be found there. He never stays much, though. He... doesn't recognize me_.

Blackquill chases the memory away, ignoring the bitterness it never fails to cause, and turns his attention back to Lang. "Taka doesn't usually let strangers touch him. Do you have experience with falconry?"

The question seems to amuse Lang for some reason. "Hah! I'm afraid not. I'm more of a dog person myself. But I can appreciate a fine predator," he adds, smoothing down the feathers on Taka's back before turning to Blackquill and walking up to his desk. "Speaking of predators, here's something you'll like – we have permission to access to the YggdraCorp's headquarters here in LA any time we see fitting," he says, and grins. "Will you be joining me this afternoon?"

His expression is that of a man who knows what answer he should expect, and Blackquill has no intention to disappoint him. "Hmph. Like you need to ask," he says. "That was remarkably quick."

Lang nods. "Lang Zi says: before aiming for the throat, chew the neck shield off," he says. "There would be no advancing the investigation if we didn't get through their refusal to cooperate first. Thankfully, the Interpol could put enough pressure on the CEO; she must have realized that refusing would make them seem even more suspicious. Of course, officially we're only looking into Stand Doff's death and past."

Blackquill isn't surprised to hear that. With no real proof of wrongdoing from their part, Interpol must be very careful not to expose what they know, what their investigation is truly about. If YggdraCorp is indeed involved in something illegal they'll obviously try to hide it, but it's for the best that they don't know how much _they_ know. "You're leading them to believe you suspect Doff, and not the company, of wrongdoing."

"Precisely. How much they really believe that is debatable; people with a dirty conscience are more alert than a hare in a field, ready to spot dangers where there is none. But you shouldn't concern yourself with any of this," he adds. "Lang Zi says: a wolf who aims to hunt for two rabbits at once is bound to fail. I'm rather certain the same applies to birds of prey."

"In other words, you wish me to focus on the investigation on Stan Doff's death and leave the rest to you."

Agent Lang nods. "Yes. Don't get me wrong – if you happen to find relevant information, do share," he says with a laugh. "My pack is far from picky. And, as a certain prosecutor taught me, truth can find the most unexpected ways to make itself known. But we have different goals, you and I; you have a murder to look into, while I'm out to find out the truth behind whatever business YggdraCorp is involved into... and to track down a certain venomous snake who made the mistake of hiding in my very bosom for years."

"The two things are very likely to be connected," Blackquill points out. He finds it rather preposterous to assume otherwise. Lang himself pointed out as much, after all.

"They are certainly connected," Lang concedes. "Which is why I'll hold back no information from you should we find any. But, for the moment, I think it's best we focus on our respective cases at hand. Even though, at least officially, we're on the same case."

Blackquill can definitely see his point. He nods. "Very well. I'll focus on everything concerning Stan Doff and let you know what I uncover. I believe a talk with YggdraCorp's chief of staff is in order. Even though Mr. Doff had his own office elsewhere, he still worked for the company. Its chief of staff is bound to have at least some information."

Lang smirks. "Sounds good. I'll have a nice talk with the CEO and see what my men can find around. I'm sure working with you is going to be interesting. I'm curious to see what you're made of on the field," he adds. "Mr. Pros- the Chief Prosecutor speaks very highly of you. I look forward to be impressed."

"I look forward to deliver, then," Blackquill says, and he means it. If Stan Doff was truly involved with experimenting on human beings, he certainly deserved his fate – but his murderer must still be caught, and Blackquill will leave no stone unturned to find our precisely what happened to him.

* * *

"An Interpol investigation?"

Surprise is not something the Phantom needs to fake just know, very much unlike the voice and mannerism: that of the Interpol being onto YggdraCorp is news to him as it would be to the real Harrison Fire. How could he _not_ know such crucial information beforehand? The government certainly would know if the Interpol was investigating on a company on American soil; why was no such information passed on to him or the Yatagarasu? Has there been a mistake, a miscommunication of some sort? Or perhaps they knew too late to pass on the information to them on time?

Either way, they certainly have had rotten luck this time around: this is quite the hassle to land in on their first day impersonating those two.

Entirely unaware of the Phantom's thoughts, the woman – Ann Tylor Dote, renewed researcher back in her youth and now CEO of YggdraCorp – nods. She's sitting at her desk, chin resting on her folded hands as the looks at her company's chief of staff: a man with pale skin, rusty red hair and dark eyes, impeccably dressed as always. "Precisely," she says calmly. Nothing in her posture and mannerism shows the slightest amount of concern. "In relation to Mr. Doff's _tragic_ death, apparently."

Stan Doff. The Phantom briefly searches his mind for information connected to that name, and finds it readily. Harrison, the real Harrison, said he was murdered – by the CEO's order. He had said he had been meddling with things he shouldn't have meddled with, apparently trying to double-cross them in some way, but he hadn't known the details. That's annoying, but very convenient right now: the less details Harrison Fire knew, the less the Phantom needs to remember now.

But then again... "His murder was a local matter. The Interpol's involvement must mean there is more to it," Harrison Fire says in a slow, calculated voice.

Dote nods, reaching up to run a hand through her hair. It's iron gray now, but it used to be black. "That much is certain. We know the Interpol found the facility in Reijam shortly after it was abandoned. The spies who forced us to abandon that place seem to have done us a favor, whoever they were," she adds with a smirk. "Hadn't it been for them, the Interpol may have found our men still in... along with quite some damning evidence. We'll make sure to thank them before they die should they meddle with our business again."

Harrison nods. He knows – because the _other_ Harrison knows – that, while they still have no real clue who was it to infiltrate their facility in Reijam, they have hired someone to be on the lookout should they show up again. If he could allow himself feel amusement right now, the Phantom could consider it quite amusing: they're already _there_ and no one has the slightest clue.

"Are you certain our man is trustworthy?" Harrison asks. The _real_ Harrison Fire had some misgivings on the man the company had hired to look out for more spies, he knows. He isn't a very trusting man, and apparently this man used to be a spy himself. He knows nothing more about this person, though: Dr. Dote didn't share many details on the matter with her chief of staff.

The CEO chuckles. "We're not going over this again, Harrison. It takes a spy to catch a spy, after all. He was supposed to be here today, but I'd rather get the Interpol off our back first. Them, and our local police. This annoying prosecutor wouldn't take a no for an answer, and the Interpol forced me to let him in as well," Dr. Dote adds with a sigh. "But it matters not. I'll deal with the Interpol; you'll talk with this Simon Blackquill and tell him we know nothing- Harrison?" she calls out, frowning slightly. "Is everything alright?"

_No._

"... My apologies. I skipped breakfast this morning; my low blood pressure didn't take it well," the Phantom – Harrison Fire – says with an apologetic smile. "I'll grab something from a vending machine."

_Not Blackquill, not him, not him of all people. This wasn't supposed to happen_, is all he can think. _It shouldn't have happened, should never have happened. I can't do this, I can't face him, I can't-_

The Phantom forces himself to end that line of thought, forces himself to shut down all emotion – _all_ of it – before he starts screaming, or laughing, or crying... or all of it at once.

_Control. Mind over matter. Mind over matter_.

_I am no one. I am nothing but an endless abyss._

_There is nothing inside as long as I will it. Nothing._

Dr. Date nods, clearly amused and entirely unaware of the turmoil that's been going on behind the mask. "Do that. It would certainly make the wrong impression if you fainted before this Blackquill. Last thing I need to deal with are accusations of working you into exhaustion."

Harrison Fire gives a polite laugh, as expected of him, and promises he'll have breakfast before dealing with Blackquill.

Pity that he needs to keep his mind clear, because some alcohol to go with said breakfast would be much appreciated right now.

* * *

"What does it _mean_, an Interpol investigation?"

Her tone of voice usually ranging from 'high' to '_very_ high', it takes the Yatagarasu some effort to keep her voice low. The room she's in is empty, sure enough – no one is back from the lunch break yet, and Mary Goround is the hard-working type who often skips it – but one can never be too sure.

"Just what it sounds like it means," the Phantom's voice – well, not really _his_ now, is it? – comes from the receiver built in her watch. "Apparently, the Interpol found the facility in Reijam and somehow made the connection with YggdraCorp. They must be on our same trail. I have no idea why we were not informed, but that changes nothing. Fact stays that the Interpol will be here shortly, along with Blackquill. They should have no reason to talk to you, but that doesn't mean you should be unaware."

"... Are you going to have meet him?"

"I'll have to talk to Blackquill, yes," the Phantom replies. His voice is absolutely flat, no emotion at all showing... but she knows he's shaken, he must be. Having to face Blackquill is perhaps the thing she fears the most in the world; she come to know that very well. "He's here in relation to Stan Doff's murder. I already know what lies I have to feed him on YggdraCorp's behalf. It won't be hard. Besides, I have no choice. There is no way to avoid it without causing suspicion."

"You could get out through the sewers, escape to Eagle Mountain and hide as a nun in Hazakura Temple."

"... Which part of the chief of staff running away would _not_, pray tell, cause suspicion?"

She sighs. "That was a joke. I was trying to make you lighten up," she says, absentmindedly glancing out of the window. She can see the entrance of the building from there... and the car that is now stopping before it. She looks on as the car's door open and a man steps out. A man she knows well. "... Lang," she says.

"What?"

Oh, right. The Phantom is listening to her; she almost forgot for a moment. "Agent Lang. He's coming in."

"_That_ Agent Lang?"

"No, the evil twin."

"I'll assume that was a joke."

"Obviously," she says. There is a moment of silence as the Yatagarasu stares out of the window, watching Shi-Long Lang striding towards the door with Simon Blackquill by his side. He hasn't changed these years, she thinks – he hasn't changed one bit. And somehow it feels _good_ to see him there, even if she knows he may be a pain in the neck and, who knows, maybe even get her. It's like seeing an old friend again. "Ha. Hah. Hahahahaha! Quite the coincidence, huh? Lang and Blackquill at once! Well, isn't this exciting."

"Not quite my choice of words," is the Phantom's flat reply.

She grins. "Oh? And what would your choice of words be?"

"Something along the lines of 'fuck this' and 'why me', I suppose."

"Pfft, hahaha! It's funny to hear you cuss. How do you stay so deadpan while saying everything?"

"At least one of us is amused," the Phantom says drily, and the next moment the communication is cut off.

She sighs, smile slowly fading. Despite all the excitement and thrill – _he's here, Lang of all people is here, what are the odds?_ – she has to admit that there is nothing funny about the thought the Phantom is about to have to face Blackquill again.

Nothing _too_ funny, anyway.

* * *

"You'll be received in a minute, sir. Please make yourself comfortable as you wait."

Blackquill merely nods at the receptionist and goes to sit on one of the black leather couches in the foyer. As he waits – not for long, hopefully; Lang was led to the CEO's office right away – he takes a look around. The place is impressive, but that's no surprise: YggdraCorp is an extremely successful company. Not that Blackquill is impressed: human experiments cross the border between unethical and abhorrent by a fair bit.

"Prosecutor Blackquill, I presume?" a voice calls out. Blackquill turns to see a man walking up to him, a man with rusty red hair and a pale complexion.

He stands and nods at him. "That's correct. And who may you be?" he inquires. The man gives him the aseptic smile Blackquill has come to associate with high ranking corporate executives.

"I'm Harrison Fire, chief of staff. Pleased to make your acquaintance," he adds, holding out his hand. It's a hand which Blackquill has no desire to shake, so he deliberately ignores it. Fire keeps holding it out for a few moments before he lowers it with a small, embarrassed cough. "Er. It's my understanding that you're here in relation to Stan Doff's tragic death. We were all deeply shocked by his passing."

"I can imagine," Blackquill says drily. "We can take this to your office, I presume?"

"Of course. This way," Mr. Fire says, turning and gesturing for him to follow. And follow he does, readying himself to force the truth out of this man if he must. Because he _shall_ have answers – no matter what.


	6. Daytime Nightmares

_A/N: finally, some interaction between Blackquill and the Phantom! It sure took more than expected to get to it. __And I even had to move a scene back by yet another chapter so that this wouldn't get overly long. _I'm starting to think I was wrong when I said this fic was going to be "a lot" shorter than TttP was. Damn.

* * *

"Hey, birdbrain! Look here! Look what I've got!"

Seymour has barely the time to lift his eyes from his book when Robb just _lands_ on the mattress next to him, causing him to yelp. "Hey! Watch it!" he protests. "You'll land on me and break some bone one of these-" he begins, only to trail off when Robb shoves something under his nose. He blinks, rearing back, and his eyes widen when he realizes what it is.

Robb grins widely at his surprise. "Like it? I saw it at the flea market, with the guy who's always selling old coins and jewels and whatnot. He didn't even see me taking it," he boasts. "And I'm pretty sure it's real crystal, too!"

The look of wonder on Seymour's face fades a little, and he looks away from the crystal bird in Robb's cupped hands to look up at him. "You should stay away from that guy," he says. "Didn't you hear that he broke someone's wrists when he caught them stealing from his stall?"

"Hah! He'd have to catch me first," Robb snorts. "I'm too fast for him. And I told you, he didn't even see me. I'm _good_."

"Why did you even take it? It's not your kind of thing."

The question causes Robb to roll his eyes a little. Really, Seymour can be surprisingly dense for someone who's so book smart. "Gee, what do you think? It's for you, stupid," he says, and puts the crystal bird on the still open book on Seymour's lap. "Happy birthday and stuff."

"... Ah," Seymour says, and for a moment he seems at a total loss; Robb is ready to bet he didn't think he'd remember. He reaches to take the crystal bird and holds it in his cupped hands. "For me?" he asks, sounding nothing short of incredulous.

"Can't see any other birdbrain around," Robb says with a shrug, finally moving from his crouching position to sit down properly.

"You shouldn't have...!"

"I do what I want," Robb cuts him off with a grin before he turns slightly more serious and reaches up to rub the back of his neck. "Look, I've been thinking-"

"Thinking? Hang in there, I'll call the press," Seymour says, causing Robb to snort.

"Oh, ha-ha. I'm being serious here!" he retorts, and the smirk that was widening on Seymour's face fades a little. It isn't often that he gets _serious_.

"What is it?"

Robb bites his lower lip before speaking, eyes shifting down on the floor. "I, uh... well. I'm leaving," he says.

That causes Seymour's eyes to widen, mouth falling open. "You... _what_?"

With a shrug and what he hopes is a confident grin, Robb looks back up at him. "Hey, why not? A lot of the others already did. I'm thirteen already. I can be on my own. And we'll be kicked out by the time we're fifteen anyway, so why wait?"

"You're not thirteen _already_. You're _just_ thirteen!" Seymour points out, causing Robb to snort.

"Hey, so are you. You just turned thirteen today, really. I'm older than you are!"

"Except that I'm _not_ thinking of going off to be on my own on the street!" Seymour retorts.

"... Ah," Robb says, dropping his shoulders, and Seymour blinks at the sudden change of attitude.

"What is it?"

Robb clears his throat. "Well, I was... I can be on my own, really. I'm good! I can look after myself. I just was thinking that it wouldn't be fun if I was _really_ on my own, so... yeah, I was thinking... if you'd like to, you know... well..." he tries to grin at Seymour again, but the other boy just keeps staring at him, the crystal bird still held against his chest. "Look, why don't you come with me?" he finally blurts out before he can just run out of courage and just decide to forget about the whole idea.

Seymour blinks, staring at him as though he's just grown antlers. "You can't be serious!" he exclaims, and there is a sudden stab of panic in Robb's chest because he didn't seriously think he could tell him no until now, not really, and he isn't sure what he'll _do_ if he refuses. Go anyway? No, he doesn't really want to be _alone_ out there, but he doesn't really want to stay, either, and... and...!

"I am! Just hear me out," Robb says, holding up his hands. "We'd be fine! We can both get the stuff we need anyway! We do that all the time and we only come back here for dinner and sleep anyway! I also found a place to stay," he adds quickly before Seymour can object. "It's a good place! It could be _our_ place, just for the two of us!"

That causes Seymour to pause, his skepticism giving way to mild curiosity. "What place?"

Robb grins. "It's an old house! The one near the old market, remember? It's abandoned, but in a not too bad state. It's boarded up, but there is this board that can be moved to get inside – and I can put it back in place, too! It doesn't look like it's loose at all! And even if someone gets in, there are a lot of places where we can hide our stuff! Like my slingshot and your books and your bird," he adds, nodding at the crystal bird he just gave him. "We can make it our own place! Like... like a nest or something! We'll just need to get a couple of mattresses and blankets there!" he adds, still giving him no time to object. He's got to convince him, and to convince him he needs to keep talking, to explain why it's a really good idea and they should go through with it. "And we'd come and go as we please! No one to tell us what to do! And... and we can stay up late!"

Seymour bites his lower lip, and Robb has to keep his grin from widening – because he's starting to like the idea, he _knows_ he is, and that means he really has a shot at convincing him.

"Are you... are you sure you want to go?" he finally asks, his voice shaking a little. Robb knows what he's really asking, if he wants to go so badly that he'd leave him behind in the orphanage and go, and he opens his mouth to say yes... only that he _can't_. He wants to leave and do as he pleases, sure, but he doesn't really want to do that alone: he wants Seymour to be with him. For a moment he almost wants to lie, to say that of course he would so that Seymour will get scared of being left behind and come with him... but what if he doesn't? What if he chooses to stay there without him?

Sure, he thinks, he wouldn't... but _what if?_

"... If you come with me," he finally says, and reaches to put an arm around Seymour's shoulders. "C'mon, birdbrain. We'll be fine, and it will be fun."

Seymour seems still hesitant, but now he's smiling a little. He doesn't shake his arm off, and he's still holding the gift he brought him close to his chest. "You really think we'll be fine?"

"I _know_ we'll be fine!" Robb exclaims, now absolutely confident. "We can take on the world, birdbrain. Trust me."

* * *

"You have quite the impressive office."

The Phantom smiles, because this is exactly what Harrison Fire would do: pretend not to have noticed the fact Blackquill sounds anything but impressed and politely thank him.

"Thank you. I'm afraid I often fail to clean up after myself, but the cleaning service does an outstanding job at keeping it clean. You'd be far less impressed if it wasn't for them," he says with a pleasant laugh.

Blackquill hums, hangs his coat and turns his gaze to Fire's desk. It's large, though not as large as the CEO's, and made of metal. "I was almost expecting mahogany," Blackquill says. The Phantom knows him too well not to know what he's doing: trying to gather information about Harrison Fire's personality by observing his workspace. He can handle it, sure enough... but soon Blackquill's attention will focus on him.

He's not looking forward to it, but as he has no choice but put on his best act and _become_ Harrison Fire.

"I was tempted by it, I have to admit," the Phantom – _Harrison_ – says. "But I find it unpractical. I'm inclined to let my coffee fall over more often than I'd like to admit, and wiping the stain off metal is infinitely easier," he adds. Harrison Fire was – _is? Does he still live, or have they ended him? He doesn't know_ – a competent man in his work, but tends to be rather clumsy at everyday tasks. If he's to try putting up an innocent façade, underlining this trait seems only logical. It won't be enough to sway Blackquill, he knows, but it's still something Harrison would likely attempt.

After all, Harrison Fire never met Simon Blackquill until today.

Blackquill hums and turns his full attention back to him. He looks somewhat different from how he did last time the Phantom saw him: his skin is less pale and his hair cut short as it was before imprisonment, the dark marks under his eyes having faded for the most part. The Phantom heard of him from time to time in the past two years, and he knows his career is quite successful.

Of course, he could hardly inquire about his state of mind... but he can tell now that he no longer looks haunted as he did until two years ago. It's as though a weight, one that stayed even after his shackles were removed, was lifted from his shoulders. It's good to see that, to see that he moved on, that letting Robert LaRoche die on the gallows was at least worth something. Painful, in its own way... but its what he wanted, he tells himself as he meets Blackquill's gaze.

His eyes have not changed: dark, hardened gray eyes that are now narrowed at him. Blackquill is not bothering to feign friendliness, but then again the Phantom didn't expect him to. He wonders just how much he knows of what's actually going on with YggdraCorp: for all he knows, he may know even more than he and the Yatagarasu do.

The Phantom keeps Harrison's pleasant expression up and nods towards one end of the office. There are a couple of armchairs and a small leather couch there. "Let's sit down. Do you wish for a drink as we speak?" _I promised this one won't be poisoned_. "I promise I'll be careful not to spill it on you."

Blackquill walks past him and to the couch without so much of a glance. "A glass of brandy, since you so nicely offered," he says, sitting on the couch, and doesn't take his eyes off him as he pulls out two glasses and a bottle of brandy from the liquor cabinet. Acutely aware of Blackquill's gaze on him, the Phantom can't help but think back to the first time they shared a drink... although they didn't quite _share_, did they?

_I see you helped yourself to the liquor cabinet. I was under the impression you were a teetotal._

_Fulbright was._

_And you're not?_

_Apparently not. The more you know. You could have told me sooner you had this in your office. I would have come over a lot more willingl_y.

The memory of that afternoon – the afternoon he almost died after he barely managed to stop Blackquill from following his lead to the underworld – causes something in his stomach to clench, and the Phantom can tell thinking about it was not a wise idea. He tries to chase the memory from his mind, but it's too late, the thought of what happened _next_ already filling his mind.

_Don't. Don't speak, don't... God damn you, don't. I chased you for so long. Stay. Don't go where I can't follow, Fool Bright._

_Who... W-who... am I...?_

_We'll find out. You have my word, we'll find out. We will. Don't die on me. We need to do this._

_Our... last case... together... right?_

_That's right. We'll get to the bottom of it. You have my word_.

And they did, didn't they? Blackquill didn't rest until the Phantom had a name to call his own; he kept his word, and asked for one thing only in return – for Robert LaRoche to face his demise as a man. He had promised he would; he gave his _word_.

A word worth less than nothing.

No, part of him still maintains, Robert LaRoche kept his word. LaRoche died that day; it is the Phantom who lived on. The thought is both comforting and painful, but he still clings to it, willing himself not to think of it as a mere excuse, willing himself not to think of what Blackquill would think of it.

_He'd cut me down here and now if he knew_.

But he will not know. He must not. He can't allow it.

Harrison puts down the bottle and puts up a pleasant smile as he walks up to the armchair and sits after placing Blackquill's glasses on the small table between them. He leans back, as Harrison would, and lifts his own glass the moment Blackquill picks up his.

"Well then. You're here to talk about poor Stan's death. Truly a tragedy. In what way can I help you?" he asks. He knows that is what Blackquill is there to talk about, and Harrison was never the kind of man to let someone else lead a potentially dangerous conversation if he can avoid it.

Blackquill takes a swig of brandy before speaking. "How long has Mr. Doff worked for you?" he asks, not bothering with preambles. He's not doing much to hide his suspicion, either, and it takes him some effort to keep well in mind that it's directed to Harrison Fire and not to the Phantom.

Harrison bites his lower lip as if in thought and glances down at his own glass. "Let me think... about... yes, it would have been nine years next month."

"Did you hire him?"

He shakes his head. "No. I wasn't the chief of staff yet back then. I think the CEO herself hired him. Stan had a most impressive curriculum; I cannot in all conscience fault her choice."

Blackquill's eyes narrow for a moment, but he doesn't press on that point. He's thinking of the Interpol agents who are talking to the CEO right now, no doubt. "You made quite the position for yourself. How long have you been working here?"

"Fifteen years," Harrison replies without missing a beat. "I became the chief of staff some five years ago."

"And you're the one in charge for hiring, aren't you?"

"Among other things and with the CEO's ultimate approval, yes. But, as I said, it was not me to hire Stan. That was a personal choice of the CEO, as far as I know."

"His role was that of R&D supervisor, is that correct?"

"It is."

"And yet he had his office in a separate building. One that did not belong to your company," Blackquill points out. "How come?"

Harrison sighs. "Ah, that was quite the hassle, to be sure," he says. "You see, Stan was brilliant – absolutely brilliant, you have to believe me – but he liked to set his own rules for his work. Not only that, but he kept working as a researcher in plenty of fields. I think he saw himself as a scientist who would work with us, sure enough, but not necessarily _for_ us. Having his own, privately owned office was simply part of his way of working."

That causes Blackquill to further narrow his eyes, which is no surprise: he knows that Stan Doff was murdered, and if he suspects YggdraCorp then it's easy to think that the fact Stan Doff may have been less the dedicated to the company must seem like a possible reason. Still, it's not something Harrison would be able to hide – therefore, the best course of action for him would be explaining it with the least possible animosity. The illusion of a friendly environment won't be enough, the Phantom knows, but it's what Harrison Fire would attempt regardless.

"And the CEO was alright with it all?" Blackquill asks.

Harrison gives a pleasant laugh and takes a swig of his drink before replying. "Just between you and me-"

"Do not mock my intelligence," Blackquill cuts him off, his voice suddenly sharp. For a moment before Blackquill speaks again – just one moment – the Phantom's heart seems to skip a beat. "Whatever is about to leave your mouth is hardly something meant to be between the two of us."

It's not an unexpected outburst, but Harrison doesn't _know_ Blackquill, and therefore he's surprised. He blinks at him a few times before speaking. "Well, true enough. That's just a manner of-"

"_Silence_. Spare me your jabbering and tell me how come the CEO tolerated this sort of behavior – or perhaps she _didn't_, after all?"

Harrison stares at Blackquill, allowing his expression to sour for a moment before bringing back up a polite, aseptic smile. Any attempt at being friendly now would feel forced, and Harrison Fire would want his act to feel as natural as possible.

The _Phantom_ wants his act to feel as natural as possible.

"The CEO could get annoyed from time to time, yes. Why, _I _would get annoyed from time to time," he adds, and lets some warmth back in his smile as though he's bringing back fond memories. "Stan was difficult to work with, I'll give you that. In a company like this, teamwork is everything. I should know. But he wasn't much of a team player. He had his own times, his own rules. But," he adds before Blackquill can speak again, "as I told you, he was brilliant. If YggdraCorp is a leading company in its field, it's partly thanks to him. We put up with his oddities because it was _worth_ it, prosecutor Blackquill. His death was a tragedy _and_ a loss for this company."

There is a sharper edge to Harrison's voice towards the end, one the Phantom knows Blackquill will not miss. Harrison could be pleasant and accommodating as long as he ought to be, but he didn't appreciate being snapped at the way Blackquill did. Not that there are many people who _would_, to be fair.

"Hmph." Blackquill takes another swig of his brandy. "What was he working on before he died?"

"I'm afraid I don't know the details, as I'm not strictly a man of science," he says. "If an utterly unscientific explanation works for you, I can tell he was working on optic nerve repair."

"The optic nerve?"

"Yes. It was part of an ambitious project to create a functioning, fully artificial eye that would look everything like a real one. Once installed in the socket and connected to the optic nerve, it would allow people to regain their sight. As long as the area of the brain designed to elaborate images was not damaged, of course. But he was working on that, too. He was hoping to find a way to chemically reprogram and repair damaged brain areas," he says.

That much is true, he knows that for a fact – although it was a side project that is not... whatever YggdraCorp is _truly_ working on with human subjects. Still, it's what he was told to tell Blackquill. A shame that Harrison Fire wasn't let on the _details_ of what they're exactly working on.

Blackquill gives a lopsided smirk. "A true good Samaritan, wasn't he?" he asks, his voice dripping with sarcasm. Still, the Phantom pretends not to have noticed.

"He was a man of science, and I never said he wasn't a good man. He was simply difficult to get along with."

"Someone got along with him so little they murdered him and left his body to _rot_."

The emphasis on that last word is hardly surprising: the Phantom knows that Stan Doff's body was at an unexplained, advanced state of decay... much like that of the politician back in Reijam, whose trail had led them to YggdraCorp. If he's working with the Interpol, Blackquill must know it... and he must of course have guessed it cannot be a coincidence.

"A truly terrible crime, yes," Harrison says, putting down his glass. "But I'm certain the police will be able to find the murderer, eventually. Stan didn't deserve-"

"Were you aware that Stan Doff was involved with illegal, highly unethical experiments in a country called Reijam?" Blackquill cuts him of, leaning forward slightly – like a bird of prey ready to swoop down on a field rat. Like he looked at _him_ in the courtroom, determined to take him down.

_Silence! Further investigation? More like plotting your escape. But no more! I will bring you to justice myself if I must, here and now!_

He would do that if he knew who he's facing, the Phantom knows, and perhaps it would be for the best – because the thought of living to see what Blackquill would say, what he would _think_ if he knew is unbearable. And as he rears back in shock, sputtering and stammering, the Phantom has to wonder how much of it is truly an act.

"What...? No, that's impossible! Stan's work ethics...!"

"His work ethics were non-existent. Smoke and mirrors, nothing else. There is proof of his involvement with experimentation on human beings in Reijam. He used humans as lab lats, and you _truly_ believed him to be a good Samaritan? How pathetic."

Something in Blackquill's voice causes something in his chest to ache, and for a moment the Phantom forgets the mask he's wearing, forgets it's not _him_ Blackquill's disdain is aimed to – because it would be if he only knew that he still lives, that he was too much of a coward to face death and would sooner keep living a mockery of a life and leave his face and name behind once more.

_How pathetic. You can't even speak without wearing another man's face._

_Ah, but that's the life of an undercover agent for you. My real face has no meaning or value to me at all._

_...Or perhaps it is really the case that you don't even know who you are anymore. What must you see when you look in a mirror, Mr. Phantom? Not an awful lot, I'd wager_.

_No_, the Phantom thinks in sudden terror. _No, no, no, no. I know who I am. I am the Phantom. I was Robert LaRoche. That's who I was. I have a self. I didn't forget. I cannot forget_.

_Robert LaRoche is dead, and you will forget._

_No._

_Your forgot him once already. You forgot Robb. You forgot Seymour. You will forget again_.

_No, I-_

"You forgot me."

The voice is frighteningly familiar, and hearing it feels like a cold shower. The Phantom slowly lifts his gaze to look at Blackquill, but he's no longer there and someone else sits in his place – a boy no older than fifteen with black hair mattered with blood and dark, accusing eyes.

"You left me behind to die and then you forgot all about me," he says, his voice quiet. Some blood drips down from the hole in his head and into his eyes, but he doesn't even blink. "Like I never existed."

It wasn't my fault, the Phantom wants to say. He wants to say he never meant to forget, that his memories were _taken_ from him, that he's sorry he left him behind, that there was nothing he could have done to help him – but none of those words comes out, and Seymour Blaxton speaks again.

"I trusted you, Robb. Why did you let me die?"

_I trusted you_.

_Humans can't truly trust each other, which is exactly why the illusion of trust is so enticing_.

_In justice we trust!_

_We can take on the world, birdbrain. Trust me._

_Robb! Please, come back! Help me, don't leave me here! Robb! NO! Please, don't! Robert! ROB-_

"NO!"

The Phantom screws his eyes shut and inhales, his mind reeling. This isn't happening, this cannot be happening, this is _illogical_. Seymour has been dead for almost thirty years now and there is no way, there is simply _no way_ he's now sitting there before him and-

"_Fire!"_

The Phantom's eyes snap open, and he's taken aback to realize that Blackquill's face is right before his, his hands grasping his shoulders. He looks rather puzzled and somewhat alarmed, and the Phantom realizes just now he cried out loud. His eyes shift through the room, but Seymour – whatever he thought was Seymour – is nowhere to be seen.

He was never there; he couldn't possibly be.

Ignoring the terrifyingly powerful urge to cling to Blackquill, the Phantom draws in a deep breath and pulls away from Blackquill's grasp. "I... my apologies. I forgot myself," he says in a calmer, if still shaky voice. Blackquill seems still puzzled, but he does sit back and Harrison speaks again before he can. He has to explain the outburst – he _needs_ to explain it. Thankfully, the situation is giving him just the right excuse. "I'm just... unsettled. I would have never thought... good grief. Do you truly believe Stan was involved with such a thing?"

Blackquill leans back, a thoughtful frown on his face. "The Interpol is fairly certain of it," he says slowly, eying him carefully. There is no doubt that he's not quite sure what to think of what he just witnessed, but that doubt speaks volumes to the Phantom: he came to the meeting convinced that YggdraCorp – and, by extension, its chief of staff – had to be behind the murder; now the suspicion is still there, plain as day, but the certainty is not.

Or at least, if he still believes YggdraCorp to be involved, he may be starting to doubt Harrison Fire had a role in it. That would suit him just fine, because there is nothing he wants more than getting Blackquill's attention well away from the man he's impersonating right now.

Harrison reaches for the handkerchief in his suit's breast pocket and uses it to wipe his face. The mask allows perspiration, of course, and the cold drops of sweat on it are real – as is the slight tremor in his voice when he speaks again.

"I can hardly believe it," he says, his voice shaking. "It is... not my intention to doubt your word or that of the Interpol, of course. It simply seems surreal to even think of. It goes without saying you can count on our complete cooperation, although I'm afraid it won't help much."

That statement causes Blackquill's eyes to narrow again, the earlier surprise entirely fading. "Let us be the judge of what. Did he not work for you?"

Harrison nods and reaches with a shaky hand to pick up the glass and empty it in one gulp. The Phantom assumes that what Harrison would do when upset or when trying to appear upset, but at this point hardly any acting is needed: he's shaken, and he can't pretend to ignore it for one instant.

"As I told you, Stan didn't quite work for us as he worked _with_ us," Harrison says. "As you recall, he had his own separate office and... wasn't quite the team player. But he was a leading authority in his field, and I'm certain YggdraCorp wasn't the only company he worked with. If he was indeed involved in something so inhuman through _this_ company, I'm certain I would know," he says , then pauses and gives a weak chuckle. "But then again, you do only have my word that I _didn't_. That's... fair enough. Am I a suspect, Prosecutor Blackquill?"

"We're still looking into the matter," is all Blackquill says before leaning back. He's still observing him carefully, but his words are spoken slowly and he seems less outwardly aggressive. "I have a few more questions about Mr. Doff and his work here. Questions I believe you may be able to answer."

Harrison immediately nods and straightens himself. "By all means, ask away," he says.

Blackquill does ask, of course, but it's nothing he doesn't know how to answer to. The rest of the meeting is relatively easy to go through, but until the very end of it the Phantom feels as though an icy hand is gripping his insides – and he knows it's not only because of Blackquill's presence. As he speaks and speaks and speaks, he can hear the Yatagarasu's voice echoing in the back of his mind.

_That drug isn't even officially _approved_. It's still experimental. There is no data at all about possible side effects; let alone long term ones_.

Now he knows one of the side effects of dream suppressants, if anything: daytime hallucinations. And it's not good, it's not good at all. He's supposed to be in control of everything, and seeing things that are not there - things that can throw him in such a state of distress is the _opposite_ of being in control. He was able to turn the tables at his advantage this time, but he can't hope to be this lucky again.

Another hallucination, another moment like that could be his undoing – especially now that there is a spy set to work for YggdraCorp as well, someone meant to be on the lookout for him and the Yatagarasu. He needs to regain full control, and quickly.

He can only hope that interrupting the intake of the dream suppressants will make the hallucination end right away without lingering any further.

* * *

The Yatagarasu knows even before setting foot out of the labs that this is not her brightest idea yet.

She's not supposed to leave the labs with the Interpol walking around, talking to everyone they can catch – interns, receptionists, anyone going out for a cigarette break. Especially not knowing that Lang is there as well. But really, who is she kidding? Lang is the _reason_ why she's out of the lab.

It's not like her absence would make anyone wonder: she stayed over the lunch break to work – and to wire the phones while she was at it, because being able to listen to every communication going in or out of the lab is certainly worth a shot – and no one would see anything odd with her taking a cigarette break now.

Not that she has a cigarette on her right now, but that's far from a problem.

She spots Lang right at the entrance, talking with one of his men. He looks annoyed, and she can tell right away he wasn't able to get much out of the CEO. Blackquill is nowhere to be seen, which leads her to assume he's still talking to the Phantom. She can only hope the Phantom won't mess this up, but then again hell would have broken loose by now if he _did_.

Besides, Blackquill is his to deal with. She's going to be busy with Lang now.

"I'm sorry, do you happen to have a cigarette? I left mind back in my locker and I really don't feel like going back down three floors."

Both Lang and his agent turn to look at her. She recognizes the other agent as well, one of Lang's men – and a smoker, she recalls, which works perfectly for her right now. He's the one to nod and hand her a cigarette before holding out the lighter as well.

"Thank you! You saved my life," she says, smiling at both of them even though Lang didn't move nor said a word to her. He's looking at her, though: what he sees is a woman in her thirties with dark skin, wiry hair escaping her lab hat and dark brown eyes. Those eyes are still her own, for it's a feature she shares with the real Mary Goround and no contacts were needed, and somehow the notion sends a familiar thrill up her spine when her gaze meets Lang's.

He shows no sign of recognition – of course not: why should he? He has no reason to even suspect she's involved – but he finally tilts his head slightly to acknowledge her presence. "Do you work in the lab?" he asks, as though her clothing isn't making it obvious enough. She ignores the temptation to point out what a useless question that was –_ well, duh_ – and nods.

"Yes. Are you the police? Are you here for what happened to Mr. Doff?" she asks, taking a long drag of her cigarette and leaning against the wall just outside the entrance. She keeps her tone casual, but curious enough. Mary Goround had no personal connections to Stan Doff, and thus it would make little sense for her to be overly upset. Somewhat unsettled, maybe, but nothing more.

Lang gestures for his agent to leave before turning his full attention back to her. He doesn't seem to think much of her – why should he? – but he clearly isn't letting any chance to ask questions pass by. "We're the Interpol, actually. We believe Mr. Doff's death may have ties with another case we're working on; your CEO has been rather cooperative, so we'll be taking our leave shortly. Did you know the victim personally?"

She shakes her head. "No, not really. He was brilliant, I know that much, but he rarely came here personally," she says. She doesn't try to ask for more information about the Interpol's case: she already knows Lang would never divulge details of any kind to people who are not supposed to know. "I met him a few times while I was on my cigarette break and he was coming in or going out, and he always scolded me. A ugly habit, he called it."

Lang snorts lightly. "He had a point."

The Yatagarasu chuckles and man, isn't it hard not to let it turn into a full-blown laugh. She manages, too, which is good for her: laughing before him in her own way would blow her cover in a moment. "Aw, not you, too. It's only a cigarette a day, doc, I promise. Working here can be stressful."

Lang narrows his eyes only a fraction, but she knows him well enough to tell he thinks he might have seen an opening. "You do look tired, sister. Mind if I ask what you're working on?" he asks, and maybe he _really_ believes he sounds casual.

_Oh, Lang_, she thinks with an inward laugh. _Never change_.

"Basic stuff, for now. Just growing batch upon batch of stem cells. They'll be used for... something, I guess. I can't tell what, communication between departments is pretty limited. But from the little I heard, Mr. Doff was working on some repair on the optic nerve. It seemed a really neat project, shame he won't get to- oh, wait. Guess the CEO already told you all you needed about that," she says, and the grim line that is now Lang's mouth is enough to tell her she's right.

"Lang-dono!"

Blackquill's voice reaches them a moment later, nipping any further conversation right in the bud. Lang immediately turns his attention away from her... which suits her just fine, really, because a moment's distraction is all she needs to put a folded piece of paper in the pocket of Lang's jacket. She isn't supposed to be doing this – she's supposed to be _doing_ nothing like this – but then again, how could he know it was Mary Goround to put that in his pocket?

For a moment she entertained the thought of putting a ladybug on him as well, but decided against it: she knows all about Interpol's security measures, and a ladybug on Lang would be detected very soon. Blackquill would make a better target for a such thing, and she's sure the Phantom hasn't let the chance pass by. And, now that Blackquill is here, looking perfectly calm, she can tell the Phantom's presence stayed undetected. Good – one problem less.

As Lang takes his leave from her with a nod and walks up to the car with Blackquill – they'll be filling each other in with what they have found out, she's sure of it, and the Phantom's watch will record everything – the Yatagarasu takes a last drag of her cigarette before throwing it away.

"See you soon, idiot," she mutters under her breath before turning to get back in, to take on Mary Goround's role for the rest of the afternoon.

* * *

Outis can't say he was really bothered when he got a call from YggdraCorp telling him that he should wait until the next day before showing at the company to start his assignment.

A nuisance with Interpol, the CEO had said, but he hadn't really requested an explanation. As long as they paid him in full, he didn't care how long it would take to get to work. Besides, the unexpected free day has allowed him to take the necessary step to verify a certain matter here in Los Angeles... one that may or may not be related to this job.

_Did she say just that? That you were looking for a ghost?_

_Well... I think she said 'phantom' rather than 'ghost', but yeah, that's more or- I-I mean... _

The Phantom. Such a ridiculous nickname, and yet _he_ had taken to use it after rookie Prosecutor Blackquill chose it to refer to him. Outis should have recognized it as a red flag, a sign part of him wished to cling to an identity of some kind... but he hadn't. He had been willfully blind, in a way he'll never be again.

"Mr. Outis, sir?" one of the men he hired calls out, his voice hushed. Outis turns to look at him. In the light of the flashlight the man looks almost like a ghost himself; the fact they're in a cemetery at night isn't quite helping matters. "We retrieved the coffin. We're about to open it. I suppose you'd want to...?"

Outis takes one last drag before flicking his cigarette away, painting a red line in the air for the briefest moment. He turns to the man and smiles. "I ask for nothing better," he says, and follows him to the grave they just opened. The coffin is already laid on the ground, and one of the men has already a crowbar fit beneath its lid – ready to press down and open it any moment.

Outis delays that moment for a little while longer, gaze lingering on the wooden surface.

_Will you be found in here, my boy? Are you beyond my reach for good? Or are you still out there somewhere, a rabid dog with a new master you'll turn around to bite as well someday?_

The thought of his greatest masterpiece and greatest failure having to live on despite being defective – despite being _broken_ – is somewhat painful; Outis would rather see him dead now, bones and ashes resting in a coffin. But on the other hand, part of him wishes to know that what's left of his creature yet lives – so that he can put him down himself, as it should be. He must have made a mistake with him along the way; it would be only fair that he put a remedy to that. "Open it," Outis finally says, his voice barely audible.

There are a few grunts and creaking, then then the coffin's hinges give in and the lid slides aside – not by much, but enough to see part of what's inside once one of the man points the flashlight on it.

For a few moments, nobody moves nor says anything. Then, slowly, Outis smiles and reaches for something inside the coffin. He lifts the small sack of sand, one of the several inside, and gives a brief chortle.

"Not bad, my boy. Your best disappearing trick yet," he murmurs, and he lets the sack fall back into the coffin. It falls on the other sacks with a dull thud, but Outis pays the sound no mind and stares at the name on the headstone, weakly illuminated by the flashlights. Robert LaRoche.

His name. The surname is new, but Outis has known his first name for a long time because he can recall that same name spoken – screamed – once already, in his presence... a long time ago.

_Robb! Please, come back! Help me, don't leave me here! Robb! NO! Please, don't! Robert! ROB-_

He had done the boy a kindness, he recalls: a quick death to end the pain of his broken legs before he and the others were off to chase the other one, the one who tried and failed to escape. A shot in the head should have ended him as well. But it didn't, and he hadn't known he lived until he met him again ten years later, with no memories and under a different name. A nobody, ready to be shaped into _anything_ he wished, so of course there had been no reason at all to tell him he knew, to tell him what his name was.

It looked like he had found out, eventually: he had _sold_ them to obtain it... only to shed it once again, like a snake shedding old skin. But this time he won't escape, not from _him_. There isn't one single trick in the book he knows that Outis doesn't, because there wasn't one single trick in the book he hadn't _taught_ him.

_I shouldn't have failed to kill you the first time. I should have rectified that mistake and killed you when I recognized you. But it matters not. I'll put a remedy to that soon. And it won't be as quick as it was for your friend, my dear Robb. _Johan_. It won't be so easy. It won't be so merciful_.

"I have seen what I needed," Outis finally speaks up, tearing his gaze away from that name – _Robert LaRoche _– and nodding at the men. "Put the coffin back in and close up the grave again. It must look untouched by dawn. It goes without saying," he adds, "that you're not to breathe one word of this."

"Of course not. We'll keep our mouths shut, sir. But..." the man pauses, clearly torn between his curiosity and doing something his occupation must have taught him not to do – ask _questions_. But this time he seems unable to resist. "Who was supposed to be in there? Who _are_ you?"

Far from bothered by his question, Outis smiles – a cold, cold smile. "You may call me Victor Frankenstein, if you wish," he says, letting his gaze wander through dark outlines of the graves all around them. "And I'm looking for my monster."


End file.
